Saturday, March 7, 2009


My son kicks his legs into the air and laughs as his naked bottom hits the soft sheets on the bed. He squeals with delight as he feels all the different textures across his naked self. He truly represents to me someone who delights in the wonder of living and all the good life has to offer when he is in this state. Naked. He sees me coming with a diaper and jammies in hand. He makes a quick turn onto his stomach and crawls quickly to the bedpost. He begins to baby pole dance to the headboard. He looks back at me and smiles with a gleeful glint in his eye. I advance forward trying not to crack up with laughter. He makes his next move by getting down from his pole dance to crawl to the opposite side of the bed that I am trying to grab him from. I leap across the mattress and grab him by the feet before he plummets head first onto the floor. I turn him over and do my best to wrestle the diaper on. He gives mournful wails. His last plea to postpone the inevitable doom that will become his reality. Bedtime.

15 minutes later he has been diapered, pajammed, fed, and we are rocking in the dark bedroom. The cries of despair have ceased. He lays his head on my chest (his little pillows). He reaches his little hand up and strokes my cheek and whispers, "Mama." I melt and have overwhelming feelings of love toward my little one. Then he takes his precious little finger and pokes me in the eye and giggles.

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