Topic : Breastfeeding
My son pulls his hair while he nurses.
And he hates my phone being out.
He somehow finds it and smacks it away.
These things are him.
Parts of him I get to see, that I get to know.
And he knows me as only he will know.
Curled up on the bed.
Resting there, skin to skin.
Cheek to breast.
These glimpses, these moments, memories make up a life.
It’s not the sitting up.
The rolling over.
It’s the sound of his latch.
The softening back of his eyes and he falls away to sleep.
The babbles he gives as he talks himself down.
These things seen only by me.