My baby's growing up. He giggles and points and chatters and waves. He tells me he's all done. He crawls and walks along the couch. He thinks his siblings are fun. He claps and kicks his little feet when he sees or hears them. He stuffs his mouth faster than he can swallow, and he only has four teeth, so it doesn't always get chewed. He's growing up. He doesn't depend on me absolutely anymore.
But then we have those moments, when everyone has settled down, and he and I are alone together. All is quiet and peaceful, and he falls asleep nursing in my arms. His gentle breathing, slow, steady, and nearly silent, makes me feel my purpose once again. He may not need me for his survival anymore -- he can eat food and quench his thirst by the hands of others; he can move around on his own, get where he wants, change position if uncomfortable; he has others to entertain him-- but I can still provide that one innate comfort to him. I can soothe him in a way no one else can, in a way he doesn't want from anyone else. I am still of value to him. I don't know how much longer it will last, but for now, I revel in the tender moments that remind me that I am needed by this perfect little being.
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