The worn pink recliner creaks beneath us, and the springs 'squeak, squeak...squeak, squeak' each time I rock, back and forth. It's the final remnant of college furniture. Pink does not match my black-and-brown-with-orange-and-green-accents decor, but I'm oh so glad we hung onto it. This is our little nursing nest. I finally remember to fill up my half gallon water bottle and set it by me, most of the time. The rest, I just stare longingly at it from where I sit.
I hurry to unhook the clasp with one hand while BabyE hurls his whole upper body toward my breast. He opens and closes his mouth enthusiastically with eyes closed, sucking blindly with faith that I'll be there. That is innocence. That is trust, all defined by one sweet babe.
We have this down now. For something a little awkward and challenging at the beginning, it's routine now. He latches without a second thought from either of us. Within seconds a sigh as relaxation overcomes me. It is a pause. It is time to examine those new rolls around his wrists and dimples at each knuckle on his oh-so-soft pudgy hand. He gets all the mama milk he wants until, with milky face still smashed against me, he drifts off to sleep in my arms. I stare down at him and vow one more time to soak up every wonderful second of this time, simultaneously trying to push out of my head how short it is. Why does it have to be so? Maybe so we know just how precious it is.
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