He runs his hands wildly up and down my arm.
I relish in the velvety-soft warmth of his palms
as he stops occasionally to pick at a tiny imperfection.
Funny how our “imperfections” are our children’s favorite aspects.
He sings his nursing song, slow and deliberate, sweet and flowing.
His feet paw at my legs as we lie on our bed.
Then, as quickly as it began, the frenzied activity ceases,
leaving only steady breathing, slowed suckling, and heavy, still silence.
As his mind gives way to his body’s need for a peaceful mid-day slumber,
his sibling gives a swift punch from inside the womb,
probing Big Brother in the belly, Little One communicating.
I live for these moments, I know all too short,
when the rousing of this babe still in me doesn’t wake him,
and we three can curl up, warm and sleepy, in the soft flannel of winter.
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