As the bicycle legs circled and the gas flowed, her questionable eyes followed the warmth of the bedside lamp. I counted her sneezes in ‘bless you’s and continued to adore my half naked daughter as she wriggled upon a ‘poo-catching’ towel.
I was amazed at how strong her kicks were and how she moved her tiny neck with such control; the more I studied her perfect being, the more I fell deeply in love with our creation.
It was only when I wiped the milk from your familiar mouth that I realised how envious I was of you and your perfect existence. Having only just turned three weeks old, you are better than me in every way.
Now – lying on my lap staring back at me – you are without fault; silky smooth skin, heart melting facial expressions, colourless but nevertheless captivating eyes.
Arwen, you are a breath of fresh air, a new life without mistakes, without worry, without pain. As I gaze back at you I can’t help but feel embarrassed in your presence, because you are royalty and I am yet to be as pure as you.
Just born, yet already teaching me how to success at life.
I sit here, endlessly loving you and your perfect existence; all the while stinking of milk and worrying how little you must think of me, your peasant mother.