That Moment

That moment when you hold your grand daughter for the first time.  She is all cleaned up and measured and examined.  You put your left hand under her tiny head and support her six pounds of weight in your arms and try not to sob like a fool in front of your children.  She is curled up tight like she is still in the womb.  Her arm or leg moves just a tiny bit.  She opens her blue eyes and studies your face.  Her stomach lurches and some amniotic fluid comes up and makes her choke a little so you suction her mouth and wipe her tiny lips.  Her nails are surprisingly long and razor sharp.  She claws at her face and mouth so you try and protect her skin by pushing her hands away until someone brings you tiny hand covers with teeny tiny cow print on them.  She probably did that in the womb but the nails weren't as sharp under water.  Her skin is flawless.  Her hair is dark and curly.  Her nose is your nose.  Her ears are tiny perfect circles - not elongated like most ears. You talk to her and she looks up as if she understands.  She goes to her mother and nurses for the first time.  You hear that smacking sound babies sometimes make when they nurse and this is the very first time she made that noise.  She comes back to you and you cup her face in your hand and sit her up and pat her tiny little back.  She belches like a longshoreman.  With a stomach the size of a small marble this girl can burp loud.  You think about how things are different for her now compared to 12 hours ago.  No more tight warm womb to live in.  Now she has to suffer the variations in temperature.  Now she has to breathe for herself ALL THE TIME.  Now she has to take in nourishment through her tiny mouth.  Now she can hear more clearly and see shapes in the light.  Now she isn't head down and facing her mother's right all the time.  In fact her head is up and must feel heavy on her tiny neck.  This tiny girl has the responsibility of breathing, maintaining her own temperature, and gathering her own food now instead of having everything she needed supplied to her via a cord.  This girl is no longer  a parasite but a human being in her own right. Her body has to adjust it's own hormone levels now.  She is everything you hoped for.  You give her back to her parents.  They sit together on the bed and admire her.  The sunlight streams toward them from the window and what you see before you is a work of art.  You take some pictures.  You walk out of the hospital so they can have more bonding time.  Then the tears that you have been suppressing fall.  Tears of joy. Tears of wonderment.  Tears of relief.  Tears of ecstasy.  Tears of hope for the future.  Tears of gratitude that you could be here.  Tears because you can't come back to see her until tomorrow.