lullaby prose

Baby boy.
Sometimes I gripe about how I nap through the night, never getting uninterrupted sleep.
But really, a part of me cherishes it.
Even at four in the morning, you grin so big I wonder if your sweet little face will turn into one giant smile.
And that smile is for me.
At four in the morning.
I love how earnestly you eat, steadily gulping while your eyes start to droop.
My lids, too, are heavy.
But I struggle to keep them open so I can study your perfect face.
When you were born the first thing I said was He's perfect.
He's perfect.
He's perfect.
He's perfect.
I said it over and over, marveling that your body, so soft and flawless, came from my scarred and stretched and swollen one.
I lean down to kiss your round cheeks, because those cheeks will slim some day and those kisses will be harder to steal than they are right now at four in the morning.
My messy hair brushes your nose, and you twitch but stay asleep.
I pull you close and whisper love.
I pray that a part of you will remember those whispers, remember this time when the world is you and me alone, remember that, next to your father, you're the person I love most.