From Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul


A mother understands what a child does not say.

Jewish Proverb

After one last agonizing push, my baby is here. All I can see are bright red, squirming legs and feet as one doctor passes her to the next, and she disappears amongst the teal green clothing of the medical personnel.

I try to see what is happening over on that table under the light, but it is impossible from my angle. But my mother is here.

“Oh, she’s beautiful!” she tells me, and grabs my hand.

I believe my husband is in shock. He stands behind the nurses and doctor staring in disbelief at our little creation.

Seconds later, a bundled up little person is placed in my arms. And now, for the first time, I look into the face of my daughter, a perfect, innocent human being who has never been exposed to hate, sorrow or cruelty. To my surprise, she isn’t crying, but is making a sound somewhere between a hum and a coo. Whatever it is, it sounds beautiful to me. Her eyes are dark and round—she has my eyes!

As my eyes meet the tiny replicas of my own, “Oh my gosh” are the only words I can mutter before I begin to cry.

She looks like an angel. A tear drops from the tip of my nose and lands on her bright pink cheek. She blinks.

“Sorry,” I whisper as I wipe my tear from her cheek.

Her skin is so soft; it feels like velvet. Her hair is tinged with blood and looks dark from the wetness.

Caught up in this serene moment, I have forgotten my husband and mother at my side. They both have tears in their eyes.

I look at my husband and say, “This is our baby.”

He kisses my forehead.

My attention is once again directed solely to this miracle in my arms and the rest of the world disappears again. Her eyes are looking about now, and her tiny lips are slightly moving as if she is trying to tell me a secret. Her little nose is covered with tiny white bumps that look as if God carefully placed them there. A little hand emerges from the white blanket. It is a bit purple and oh so tiny. With my index finger, I stroke her palm. She grasps my finger and holds on tight. My heart melts. She looks at me again.

“Hi,” I say, with a big smile.

“Honey, we’ve got to run a few tests and give her a bath.

I’ll bring her right back,” a nurse says out of nowhere.

“Okay,” I say with a sigh.

I look back down at my daughter and say, “I love you, Summer.”

The nurse carefully takes her out of my arms. As she is leaving the room, I watch the blanket move from the wiggling of my baby’s feet.

Minutes later,my mother and I are alone in the room. She hugs me all at once, and I notice she has tears in her eyes.

“There is no love like the love you have for your child,” she says, looking into my eyes, replicas of her own.

“I know,” I say, and smile.

Melissa Arnold Hill

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