I'm not ready.

Yesterday, life was all that you've ever known it to be.

Today, everything will change.

This morning, I will get you up earlier than you're used to. I will feed you, get you dressed, and pack you into your car seat. You love car rides, so you won't think anything of it. But then we're going to pull up to a house that is pretty unfamiliar to you. I'm going to take you inside, hug and kiss you goodbye, and hand you over to a stranger. Finally, I will turn around and walk out, because I have to go to work, and for the first time in your little life, you won't be able to come with me. And I will cry.

I'm not ready.

How is it that 12 weeks can go by so quickly? It seems like just yesterday, we were bringing you home from the hospital and this journey, our wonderful time together, was just beginning. I look back in awe, because I simply cannot believe that we've reached this point already. I feel like I don't know where the time went; it feels like it somehow slipped away.

But then, I remember. The time: it was full. It was filled with snuggling, kisses, laughter, smiles, and hugs. Feedings and diaper changes, baths and naps. Sleeping in together. Books and songs and trips out of the house. It was filled with love. Me loving you, you loving me--24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

I will always remember it as one of the greatest times of my life. It was a gift.

That wonderful time of just you and me, all day, every day--that was yesterday.

Today, different hands will hold you. A different voice will sing. You will nuzzle into a different neck to drift off for your nap. Different fingers will stroke your hair, and different palms will pat your back. You will eat from a bottle, and burp over a new shoulder. Someone else will have the privilege of enjoying your smiles.

I will have to share you. And as much as that makes sense--as much as it is good for us--it makes me cry to know what I will miss. That while I sit at my desk for 8.5 hours today, you will grow 8.5 hours older without me there to witness it. The part of your life during which I live every minute of it with you--it's over, and...

I'm not ready.

For nine months, I carried you within my body, taking you with me wherever I went. We were connected in every way. You were mine--all mine. For the last 12 weeks, you have lived outside, on your own, but still so very attached to me in all of the ways that count. So, today--to leave you and go off on my own, while you go off on your own--it feels so very unnatural. You are a piece of me; you are my heart. And I am leaving you behind.

The transition: We will make it. Soon, this will be our new normal. Someday, it will not hurt as badly as it does now. We will do it, simply because we have to. But knowing where we will be does not make where we are any easier to deal with.

I'm just not ready.

But ready or not... it's here.

"No one else will ever know the strength of my love for you;
After all, you're the only one who knows what my heart sounds like from the inside."
- Unknown