So, I got to hold a two-week old child tonight, and it was holy and good. We stayed there a bit too long, so my own children were annoying and weepy by the time we got home, and that was hard. I hate my annoyed mom voice.
Anyhow, seeing as it is late, I’ve got to do this:
Here you are, newly minted in my own private bliss. Here you are with that milk breath, here you are all floppy and all original in my arms, and, oh, how these arms ache to hold the weight up, upright up to prevalent spittle, and how they didn’t know what they were missing arms in this fight for newborn peace.
and always I miss that weight and smell, all sweet sour milk and b.o and berries.
I carry all seven pounds of you around for forty minutes and bounce in memorial of my own growing ones. What a blessing it is, to hold a baby. How that weight counteracts death, and how that smell is the sour-milk breath of life. It could be the best and most lifegrown thing, to bounce that new child, fragile-necked and floppy, up against your breast,
and let that new child root.
Too late. Spent to long tonight hanging with friends. Oops! Night poem-peeps.