I Want To Remember His Morning Stretches
I want to remember the feeling of him waking up in my arms forever.
After the last pre-sunrise diaper change and feeding, when he starts to wiggle against my chest and test the limits of my folded arms because something has determined that now is the time to wake up.
I want to remember the contortions of his face before he even opens his eyes – discomfort, disappointment, frustration, surprise. Seriously. I want to remember the way he arcs his eyebrows, and pushes his whole forehead up into a set of tiny wrinkles as though he hadn’t expected the morning to come and yet …
I want to remember the tiny squeal that seems to come, involuntarily, from some over-pressurized valve inside of him – just a sudden, long release – and I want to remember the huge sigh that always follows because, darn it, waking up is just so hard.
I want to remember the way he pushes his head and butt against me to arch his back, which, now that I think about it, may be what actually releases that valve. I love the way he pulls his feet up at the same time and curls his arms to the sides of his head, and then, like it were some kind of baby yoga move, stretches legs and arms straight out in either direction with a second little squeal, before collapsing, with that sigh, back into his fetal position.
I want to remember the way he smacks his lips together and furrows his brow as he slowly and timidly opens his eyes, looking around to make sure we’re just where he left us, and I want to remember forever that shallow deep breath he takes when he finds my eyes through the dim light.
I want to remember his soft skin and that new-human smell that I get to inhale as I curl him up toward me, the way he flinches and squirms in response to my staccato morning kisses, and the smile that eventually finds its way across his face.
There will be big things, I know – crawls and steps and words – but I want to remember the little things too. I want to remember his morning stretches.
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