Perfect Sense

I laid you down in your bed, holding my breath as I listened to yours. Not five seconds later my plans of reading my new book and baking cookies disolved into thin air as you stirred, sat up and reached your little arms toward me. "mama," you squeaked out from your tired mouth. So I reached down and scooped you up with another deep breath. We sat back down on the rocking chair, your sleepy eyes gently closing, and the soft, pretty glow of your stars washed over us as the gentle sway of the chair lulled us both. Your breath deepened, harmonizing with the sporadic bubbling of your humidifier and the constant tick of the clock. The rain machine wrapping everything in a peaceful chorus. Your knees pressed into my belly, the weight reminding me both of how big you are getting, and from where you came, your head heavy on my neck. I nuzzled your neck, breathed in lavender and sweet dreams as your soft blond wisps tickled my cheek. Your tiny fingers caressed my arm, my shoulder, then clutched my neck. And suddenly, you were asleep. I stopped time. Captured the precious moment in a bottle. Framed it on my heart. Your sweet curls, smooth skin, eyelashes laying delicately on your cheeks, little fists holding your blanket, body soft and heavy, right where it belongs in my arms, heart to heart. The chaos of motherhood; the extra laundry stained with ketchup and orange juice; the confusion of emotional screams echoing around the room; the battles over nap time; the spills on the floor and toys underfoot; the exhausting waking at midnight and six am; suddenly, in this peaceful cocoon, it all made perfect sense, and I didn't want to put you down. And I remember that always, it makes perfect sense.