I knew we would understand each other, you and I. From the moment I held you in my arms, I knew. The nurses said your O2 levels were normal, but why were you grunting? Even back then I knew you. Clearly you were complaining. The lights were too bright, there was too much bustlin', and your lungs were filling for the first time in foreverrrrr (pardon the Frozen reference, you don't like that movie). You were 5 pounds, 10 ounces and 21 inches of grunty baby boy. 38 1/2 hours later and there you were. They took you to the NICU, you were so tiny, you were supposed to be a Valentine's Day baby, I guess 3 weeks makes a lot of difference, my little booboo, as the NICU nurse liked to call you. They took me to my room, to sleep I suppose, I couldn't of course. I didn't take the meds, despite the anasthesiologists adamantly insisting. I knew the drugs were supposed to relax me, dope me down, get a good high going, but they would affect you, too. You, little one, would get sluggish, weak. I tend to fear the worst, I suppose. A few hours of pain for you to come out screamin' and rearin' to go? I would do it all over again my darling. In a heartbeat. I fell in love when I heard yours, I remember now. They couldn't keep me in my room. I wasn't hurting, at 17 one really bounces back from birthing fast. Escape predators, maybe? Well you and I would've survived in the wild, for sure. Well, I'd like to think so. But you were so small... They pricked your tiny feet, huge now, and squeezed you so hard for one drop of blood. All I could do was cry with you and clasp you to me afterwards. You had so many tubes, I didn't even know how to hold an infant, those classes cost a bit much at the time. But once you were in my arms it made sense. I remember planting my face to the top of your head and just inhaling until my lungs were filled with you. Just like I do now, as I hold you while you sleep. That was 6 years ago. When you're 40 and I'm nearing my 60's I will still hold you close and breathe you in. You are my always and forever. I wonder if that's what my mother does when she brings me in close for a hug... I wonder if she's remembering how it used to be, when she pressed her nose to my head and knew me for the first time.