Tonight he woke hungry. When I pulled the blanket away from him he curled into a loose ball, his bare toes –warm and tiny– scratching my arm as I settled beside him. I wrapped my arm around him and pulled him close so his wee, tucked legs brushed my stomach. He ate quickly, determinedly, never opening his eyes. I laid for awhile and thought about the coming week, and when I felt I’d turned over enough thoughts, I studied his clasped, dimpled hands, the fuzzy cap of hair on his head, stroked my finger down the smooth curve of his cheek.
This is one of my favorite parts of being a mother, the sacred hollow of time in my childrens’ lives when I am the sole source of their food, and so much more with it. Sometimes it’s messy and inconvenient, a tether on the days when my head aches from the neverending activity. Always, always, though, when we find ourselves facing one another, his new eyes shimmery with innocence and trust, I am grateful this is mine. It’s a glorious duty; I’ll hold it forever in my heart.