Baby love

The little guy has fallen asleep nursing. One hand up, open, fingers splayed on my chest, the other down, fingers curled next to his cheek. His eyelashes fan on his butterball cheeks, thick and dark and so long. Just like his daddy.

This babe is so round. Laid on his tum, naked, he has a fat little bum. Not that you'd notice it otherwise, but naked it's impressive, as are the rolls on his thighs. I was noticing today that he might need to move from size 3 to 4 in diapers. He's not yet 5 months old and over 18 pounds. Oy, my back.

He's sucking his tongue in his sleep. His ears look like they need nibbling. Fat and pink and soft like warm August peaches. Yum. He smells nice, like things fresh from heaven should smell. Did you know that they arrive on the planet like that? It's true. I'd always thought their breath smelled sweet because of the milk, but mine have all had that "milk breath" when they were born.

My hands down favorite time is nursing. Not that the cooing, burbling, and laughing isn't just precious. It is; I well up thinking about his smiles and sounds. They make my heart sing. It's just that the business of filling the little belly is, well, primal, I suppose. And when he's so hungry to start with, convinced that no one would ever feed him again, when he's had a looong draught, is finally full and comes up for air, wobbly and milk-drunk... It completes a circle. I don't know how else to refer to it.

He's out. Head back and mouth open, smiling and zonked.

Shhhhh. I'll be back.