And if I could bottle it up and take a hit of it every day, I would.
I knew. I saw you after your nap and I could tell. You weren’t feeling well.
The eyes give it away every time.
I picked you up. You were warm. You were extra snuggly and didn’t want to be put down.
You have a fever and you are sort of puny.
Bedtime means, nursing, maybe a story, a song, some rocking and bed.
I turned the lamp off, gave you your blanket (I call him “bunny bunny”), and snuggled you in for a song.
You were out before I could find my key.
You haven’t fallen asleep on me at bedtime in months. I just sat and smelled you and held you. I breathed you in. Mommy and her baby, just us for three hours.
I did play on my phone for a little bit.
I’ve tried to tell daddy you each have a smell. I would know it immediately. It’s a little sweet, a little sour and all you. It’s a smell I never want to forget.
After holding you close and giving you what you need, I smell like you. I don’t want that smell to go away.
You’ll understand one day why I was sniffing my shirt later that night after laying you down. It’s okay if you don’t get it now.
The smell of you. I know you. I will know it forever, and yet, forget it too quickly.