Through You

I lie next to you for your third nap of the day. You are calmed and comfy in your sleep sack. I caress your forehead to help you close your eyes, but you don’t seem ready just yet. For a few seconds, you stare at me and smile. This stare lasts longer than any other before. You look at my eyes for a long time. I smile back at you, and we lie there for a few minutes until you decide you’re ready to get some rest.

You have been smiling at me for many weeks now. You recognize my face and grin every time I look at you, but this moment felt different. I felt like you were studying every inch of my face and saving it in your memory. I decided to stop trying to help you sleep and instead, I held your gaze and whispered, “te amo.”

My face brings you joy and comfort. You feel safe when you see me, and this moment made me think about that tender image of me I have not embraced, an image that is hidden behind the negative reflection of a postpartum body that I don’t recognize as my own.

I don’t love who I see in the mirror each day. All I see is a sleep-deprived face, hair always in a bun because it’s falling like crazy, and the pouch where you grew that I now drag around. I keep telling myself what others would say, “This is normal and you’ll go back to your usual self eventually.” The rational Ana knows this to be true, and I would say it to any friend three months after giving birth. But it gets harder to play that tune when I stare at a version of myself that makes me feel less.

You don’t care about any of that, though. You see my face with dark circles and smile. You stare at the messy hairs coming out of the not-cute-at-all bun and smile. I hold you against this body I don’t care for and you breathe into it. For you, I am everything.

You’ve been asleep for a while now, and I’m still lying next to you, feeding from your sleepy smiles while writing these words. And as I do, I promise myself to be kinder and make an effort to see myself through your eyes. I am enough.