My baby loves soft things. When you hand her the pink and white afghan my mother crocheted her, she grins and buries her face in it deliriously. If she's on the floor and starting to get tired or hungry, one of the kids will keep her happy a little longer by giving her Big Bunny, the over-sized stuffed rabbit with its downy fur. And whenever she's nursing or trying to go to sleep, she puts her hand on the soft part of my arm, running it up and down, up and down, soothing herself and me at the same time. It reminds me of when I would put my oldest to sleep, seven years ago now. I would sit with her on the back porch, watching the shadows lengthen in the field behind our house - when you only have one, you have time for such luxuries. Eventually I would feel her tiny hand dribble down the side of my arm as she lost her hold of the conscious world.
I have babies on the brain. I guess I should; I've been staring at one non-stop for going on a year.
Babies do the funniest things when they nurse. Lately, mine has started whacking me in the chest, over and over and over again. She's only an infant, but after awhile it starts to sting, or at least annoy. I don't think it's a sign of angst. I think she just enjoys how it makes the satisfying sound of a good high five. My older two would always clutch a fold of my skin and knead it, knead it, like dough. All of my babies have enjoyed sticking their little forefinger into my mouth and then curling it around my lip or my bottom teeth, which can be painful if you're not good about keeping their nails trimmed.
(2013)
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