An Author's Trashbin

23

Here, she lay on my chest, resting to the sound of my heartbeat. Her breathing aligns with mine as she smiles in her slumber.

She is adorable.

It's almost as if my breastbones crack open and invite her in, swallowing her into my skin so that she may sleep protected and warm.

She is safe.

Yes, it took us a while to get here. Constant bobbing and reswaddling, shushing, and humming. But victory came, and it was silent, and it was swift. As I look at her finally at peace, I realize why I spend hours on hours trying my damnest to fight off her cortisol monsters.

She is beautiful.

Her face softens, her lips twitch, her hands grab my shirt, and her voice peeks through the silence. Singing in her sleep with soft, happy coos. And the closer I look at her unmoving expression, the more I see in her face that I adore. Her faint freckles, her button nose, her heart-shaped lips, her smooth skin, her little elf-like ears.

She is divine.

If my child wanted to, she could sleep on my chest for the rest of eternity, and I would stay awake for all of those years, humming and shushing, reswaddling, and constantly bobbing. Just for her.

Because she is my baby.