It’s 2am & dark in the house. The waves in the sound machine & the little breaths from my boy are the sounds that fill my ears along with the creak of the glider, a hand-me-down that has seen so many hours of the morning.
He burries his nose further into my neck, shifting in my lap until his legs drape down across the sides & I think back to flannel swaddling blankets. His hand grabs my pajamas & finds it’s way into my shirt until his little palm rests upon my belly, soft from pregnancy & motherhood. He snuggles down further until his head rests against my chest & he’s listening to my heartbeat & comforted. He knows me inside & out, the same way I know him.
I think back to the times when I was told that this bonding would not happen as long as he fed from a bottle. I remember the comments about how nothing could compare to the bond between a child & nursing mother & I wonder why I take that phrase so personally. How two years later, those thoughts still sting me because I love my baby, too & I think we’re pretty okay together. I worried I would never experience my child needing me physically & now he finally calms as his head rests against the breasts that never fed him, & I know that bonding flows deeper than milk in all mothers & babies.
