Some days you sit in a car with a sleeping child because this is the only moment of peace in your day. He is a blur, in pictures and in your mind, so that when he is stilled - peach lips parted, chest gently rising, not even a sound escaping - you don't dare move for fear of missing it.
Yesterday was his birthday and the age of 4 betrays the fact that today he is still your baby.
He is the one who came quickest, the one who came last, the only one to come without being prodded with pitocin. He's the one who came in a white wrought iron bed, the one whose eyes first blinked at the Irish sun, the one born by the sea. He's the one you felt the most, far from home and without so much as a drop of tylenol, so that when he was placed on your chest, fresh and wild from the womb, you forgot what you had fought so hard for, for only that moment.
The midwife said, "Look, your son." And you asked, "My son?"
Yes, that's right. Four years and so many suns and moons ago. Two continents and half a dozen homes ago.
My son came in a blur; quick, and last.