Saturday, April 17, 2010

A quiet morning

I glance down at the curve of my baby's body. He is snuggled up on his c-shaped pillow that I use for breast-feeding. The three-year-old is asleep in our bed with her daddy. This after half an hour of whining that she wanted mommy. I find it strangely comforting that they need me. This is silly, for of course children need their mother, but as the parent who works it can be a bit hard at times to think that they will always only want the one they are most familiar with. The one who is there for them. It's a silly thought I know, and a self-centered one at that, so instead of dwelling on those thoughts I breathe in the smell of him. Which is usually 90% spit-up smell that has a faint scent of vomit. The other 10% is that sweet baby smell that I swear must come from heaven. Every now and then he sighs. A deep heavy sigh which makes me wonder if he is dreaming of a land of no milk or some other such horror. It's the quite mornings like this that I try to burn into my memory. So I can recall them after a week of him waking at 4 and her waking at 6 and him again at 8. Every now and then he sucks. At nothing. At least he got the milk back in his dreams.

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