Each night before bed, my son casually, nonchalantly, reaches out and grabs my ear, pinning me to his side. If he is particularly uneasy, he grabs both ears, pulling me close, and I smell baby soap and milk, warm cotton and skin. Our breaths mingle, our heartbeats answer each other and together, we drift to sleep. I am his, and he knows it.
It wasn't always this way. I was a nervous new mother. I'd read all the books and knew all the ages and stages, but none of it helped me. I was terrified. Too scared to let myself love this small, feeble being, all hunger and need, helpless. One thing that new life had shown me was that living was an unpredictable and sometimes dangerous thing. That such a snippet, not much larger than a carton of eggs,
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