My eyes look down upon your soft rosy cheeks. The rhythm of your suckling steady and greedy. Whatever has transpired in my day has faded away as though dusk has fallen around me. No longer tired, no longer rushed, no longer does my mind create tasks yet to be done. I am here, with you as we rock in the rocker with it's creak on the hardwood floor. Like the rhythm of your nursing we create our own song.
Your eyes are closed with your long brown lashes fanned and curled, and sweat dampens your soft wispy hairline. My arm is damp in the crook where I hold you. Rocking, rocking.
Your drowsy and milk drunk. Eyes flutter beneath your heavy lids as you lose latch and nurse the air. Yet even with eyes closed you find your milk source and pick up the rhythm with our rocking. An odd suckle here and there till off you drop into dreamland.
Sweet child of mine, my little lamb. I gently lift you to my shoulder and rub your back, round and round waiting for your burp. Firm and soft my hand goes, in rhythm with my rocking. I sing my little song to you,
"Come on Mr. Burpy, come on lets go,
come on Mr. Burpy,
we don't have all day you know!".
Warm and damp with the effort of nursing, your cheek leaves mine damp too. Quiet in this time of ours. I hear your sister playing in the other room, busy with make believe. Soon, too soon, you will be off at play with her and I will watch with wonder and the perfect joy you both have brought me.
