My toes are still cold. Silence dances around me, welcoming my wound up mind to unfold her wings and take refuge in the dimly lit stillness. My children are all asleep, and my spouse is out. And it's very late.
Beside me lays a tiny chubby angel. A princess. A wise looking miniature queen, with sweetly pursed lips with a sweet dribbly ribbon of her mother's milk still resting between them at the corners. Her hands are like soft fluttery butterflies, and every now and again, some naughty dream startles her and the warm velvet fingers search until they come to rest on my side, and then relax back into a sweet slumber. I revel in the glorious ability to bring such total and instant comfort. Delicious happy tears pour into my heart, and my soul becomes dizzy, intoxicated with the power to bring such a perfect being this kind of comfort.
I'm away from the persons who would suggest that my hands are too full, or that I should be terribly stressed out. Tucked into a cozy dream, we're safe from the fussy business of the daytime. I needn't pretend to be less happy than I am to fulfill some silly social contract. I'm happy. I'm blissfully happy. Deliriously intoxicated and in love with the perfect soft breather nestled against my side. My only worry is that I may never be able to sustain this kind of bliss, and that the rest of life will be bittersweet in the light of this recollection.
I love being a mother. With every fiber of my being, even in my moments of greatest failure, I'm so very happy. Even if it tests my limits and rends my heart in ways I'd never before imagined, I'm hopelessly addicted. I only wonder how I got so lucky as to have strayed into such happiness; I who once vowed I never wanted to give birth or take a child to my breast. Motherhood has turned me into such an awe-stricken and joyfully humble servant of humanity, and all I can do is weep tears of happy gratitude at it's feet.