Oliver Everywhere.

My son is one week old today, and I see him everywhere. As my swelling goes down, and my hands, feet, legs, and face again become familiar; as my belly's curve begins dropping; and as actions such as bending down, lying on my stomach or back, and cuddling close to my husband again become possible; I become even more connected to Oliver than before. I see him in these thinning hands and feet (so like his); my wide, tired, slow-moving eyes; facial expressions of some of our visitors (is it my love-focused mind or actual evidence of genes?); and even in random objects. Everything is like him ("You looked like Oliver just then!") regardless of how long he, she, or it existed before him.

When he sighs, swallows, or struggles to clear his throat, I startle awake. When he cries his little bleating cry (so rare unless he's cold), I leak this mysterious, frothy substance my body has discovered how to make. I am more his than he is mine. Today, I asked his daddy to find Oliver's first hat...pink and blue stripes...he ever wore, the one the nurse showed me while I was in labor, the one he was wearing when I was finally able to reach for him eight hours after his birth. The hat is so delicate; I hope I can balance seeing him in it and preserving it forever. I am still myself, but oh, I am more.