Warning: Shits about to get sappy. 

My love for him wasn’t sudden, I didn’t see his red and wrinkled screaming face and feel a sudden rush of love and joy. It didn’t erupt from me like a rush of hot, molten lava. It came on slow. In bits and pieces. It was the lump in my throat when I worried he might not breathe on his own. The sting in my chest as he cried when they had to re-site his cannula. It presented itself as frustration that I couldn’t hold him, as weeks of sleeplessness and not eating, as anger and worry and numbness. It came in ebbs and flows at first, as something I named only fondness or ‘like’ at the beginning. It snuck up on me quietly as I rubbed his hairy little head and put his fragile, naked body against my skin. It gently pushed its way in with his grunting and squeaking and nuzzling. My love for him tip toed around me, fooling me into thinking I didn’t need him, wasn’t connected to him, that my sleeplessness was obligation rather than concern and then it appeared as I bathed him and dried him and kissed his fat head when no one was looking. My love for him climbed gently, persistently, silently into my lap as his hot breath blew against my neck, his tiny hands clasped my finger and his feathery hair brushed my face. 

It wasn’t sudden, it wasn’t instant, it wasn’t overwhelming or all consuming. It was calm and quiet and gentle and soft. It enveloped me when I wasn’t looking, when I least expected it and it took me completely by surprise. 

Note: This doesn’t mean my uterus is up for rent (ever), or that I’m soft, or that I want to be called Mum. Love is like a fucking ninja, that shits inescapable.