It's been 45.5 hours since I held her last ...

... and I feel terribly, terribly lonely.

I miss my baby.

I miss the warm weight of her snuggled against my chest as she napped. I miss her chubby feet, her wide little hands. I miss her soft cheeks, her tiny nose and button of a chin, her fuzzy little head with its liberal dusting of dark hair. I miss her eyebrows - so expressive! - going from relaxed to furrowed to relaxed in the space of a few seconds. I miss her pretty pink lips, often parted in her sleep, and the feel of her sweet breath on my neck. I miss her chunky thighs, her innie-outie bellybutton, her round little shoulders.

I miss the sweet little squeaks she made in her sleep, the expressive babble when she is awake. I miss those wide blue eyes staring into mine, eyes ringed by lashes much darker and longer than a baby should have. I miss her gummy smile and her funny, "a-heh" of a baby laugh.

I have a soft blanket that M made for me. I squish it just so and hold it the way I held Roo. I pat it where Roo's back would be. I rest my cheek on it where Roo's face would be. I rock slightly in my seat - a reflex developed over nine weeks of cradling a baby in my arms. I hold the blanket and close my eyes and I can almost - almost - pretend it is Roo that I am holding.

I wonder how I had the strength to do it on Wednesday night. I still marvel that I handed over my baby - my dear sweet baby, the baby I conceived and grew and birthed and loved and cared for - to a woman I hardly know. I handed Roo to M, and I left.

How did I do that?

How could I have? Yesterday as I had a hysterical fit, I sobbed to my mother than I had made a mistake, that I wanted to take it back. Take Roo back. There had to be some way I could fix this. I'd changed my mind! Wasn't I entitled to change my mind?

I knew that, according to the law, I was not. And I knew that Roo was exactly where she was supposed to be. She was safe, happy, loved. It's me that this is hard for. Every second that she isn't in my arms, I miss her. It's a permanent ache.

I pray that the ache will dull with time, that it will lessen. That I will learn to live with it. If you're reading this, whomever you are, please pray for me, too. I need all of the strength I can get.