I find myself not wanting to let go of Asher after he's fallen asleep in my arms. His tiny, limp body still clinging like a stuffed doll with super-doll arms. Was that weird?
When I am finally able to give him up to his stuffed animals, baby blankie, and snug crib, I spend at least another minute wishing I could crawl in there with him. Wishing I could always feel as incredibly safe as I imagine he feels.
He fell down yesterday and bled actual blood for the first time that I can recall. I mean, for the first time outside of the doctor's office, where the nurse is quickly cotton-balling away any stray blood from his shot wounds. That sounds way more gruesome than it is.
Anyway. There we were. Sitting on the kitchen floor, coats recently hung up, staring at his skinned finger together. "Blood," I told him, as he stared at his little thumb (a zillion moons before he attempts to hitchhike on some stupid dare). "Bluh," he repeats, still staring in disbelief. Then, the tears come, as if there is some alien intelligence that understands he is human. Or that he can get hurt. That bleeding happens when a person runs down hill and trips on his own feet. And, man, that sucks so bad.
I wish he'd never trip again, but that's not entirely truthful. It's not that I don't want him to trip, but rather, I don't want him to bleed. I don't want him to ever feel that sting or anything else that hurts a zillion times more, which he will inevitably feel one day.
For a few precious seconds more, he is mine. Safe in his crib. He is more dependent on me than our cats are. He is a rag doll in my arms, being rocked to sleep after experiencing his first tiny scrape from the outside world.