We sit in our usual places. Him on the center cushion. Me to his right.
Always in these places.
Emma crawls on the floor at our feet, happily exploring this world.
This is how we spend parts of our days.
His rests his hand in the familiar spot on my knee and I feel the warmth from his tiny palm.
I look down.
His hand seems so small and yet so big. My pioneer baby is becoming my pioneer child.
But right now he is in between.
I stare at the hand on my knee and the finger dimples betray his quest for childhood. They are the vestigial organs of infancy, signs of a time that feels so long ago now.
The size of his hand says he is growing up. The finger dimples say otherwise.
The finger dimples say that somewhere inside this big boy my baby is hiding.
I gaze a little longer to catch a glimpse of what was.
“Mine,” his hand says.
“Yes, baby. Yours,” my Mama Heart replies.
I am his lovey. His comfort. His mother.
My heart swells.
I am transcendent in that moment, looking at the enormous significance of something so small and commonplace. Something so much a part of my every day that I do not always notice its occurrence.
Then Emma cries out from the floor at my feet pulling me back to the present. She has crawled to me, one tiny arm outstretched asking me to pick her up.
I scoop her into my lap and she buries her head in my chest.
I begin to nurse her and look down.
Her hand rests on a spot just near my heart.
Finger dimples look back at me. Tiny markers of what is.
“Mine,” her hand says.
“Yes, sweet girl, yours too,” my Mama Heart replies.
I am her lovey. Her comfort. Her mother.
My heart swells again.