Sunday, August 14, 2011


The clock says it's 1:48am. I hear the soft "click, click" and I feel perfect peace. In the soft light of my rock lamp I can't help but smile as my little bundle snuggles in my arms post feeding. Occasionally making little kitten noises as she stretches and snuggles back into the sweet spot at the crook of my arm. Heaven! I love it when a little dreamy giggle escapes her lips. Oh I would pay so much money to get a glimpse of her little newborn dreams. What makes her smile in her sleep? I am dying to know.

Part of me is distracted by the wonders of my late night Googling. Most of me is consumed in the perfect cuddle with my daughter. I am a recovering addict of the newborn cuddle. I had almost grown past this insatiable desire as Cade got to be an active wiggly toddler. Now I can't pick what I love more. Snuggling I'm. His twin bed. Hearing him say "'mon on, mommy" and pat is bed for me to "come on, lay down". Then reading him a story and having his little arm pull my neck in close to his and feel the pressure of our warm bodies, and hear our hearts beating together. ...ll. Or do I love this? Holding her close to me, milk drunk, smelling her downy peach fuzz head and kissing it all over without her waking up. Feeling so lucky when she curls her fingers around my pinkie. Now I'm getting my fix from two powerful drugs: son and daughter. Toddler and newborn.

I just came across a beautiful poem. An ode to a mother's rocking chair. Sounds silly, but it's beautiful. And perfect. And everything my life is right this moment. Thank you to Leslie, from for sharing this!

"Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth
empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
hang out the washing and butter the bread,
sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I've grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peek-a-boo).
The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
and out in the yard there's a hullabaloo,
but I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
for children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep."

1 comment:

  1. I have the last part of that poem taped to my mirror so I remember to put things in prospective. I don't know how I missed that you had a blog! Can't wait to read everything!


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