I surrender to his soft little tuna-fish breath on my cheek and his fleeced foot pressed against my stomach. I surrender to the stuffy-nose snoring and the midnight dream-wandering under our thick covers. To his warm diaper pressed against my head, to his hot sticky hands combing my hair, to four am demands for milk. I’ve surrendered for fifteen months to his sweet, oven-baked body pressed against mine each night. I’m so used to it now I’m surprised by the realization that I don’t ever want to stop.


ETA: As I fell asleep last night, I also realized that when this post began floating around in my head, I was subconsciously responding to this post by Her Bad Mother.