I read a blog called Her Bad Mother and the author (years ago, it would seem, I am so behind blogolistically speaking) called for others to write about the physical nature of their love for their children. I read some, was enthralled, and couldn't wait to give it a whirl myself.
Before Violet, I always heard moms and grannies talk about how they wanted to "eat a baby up." What a horrible, Rosie O'Donnell-esque turn of phrase it was: "Eat a baby up." It was in the same vein as 'cutie-patootie' -- makes me want to puke. First off, ingesting a baby makes no sense. After carrying one for nine long months, going to all the trouble of getting it out, who would want to put her back in? I didn't understand why holding her, cuddling her, rocking her might not seem like enough. Who are these crazies who can't get enough baby via the typical routes? Who are the loons that want to devour poor little babies?
Turns out, I am a baby-eater. Or at least, I would be, if I could be. I suppose, figuratively, I am one. A baby-eater. I really only have an appetite for my baby, but, I think eating just one baby is all it takes to fall under the heading.
The delight of her skin under my fingers is the most soothing sensation I have ever felt. Now, in late winter, with temperatures still lingering below freezing most nights, I have a terrible urge to let her frolic in only her diaper, just so I can glimpse those wondrous new skin cells in all of their rosy, dimply, glory. But just seeing her skin isn't enough, I need to stroke it; with my fingers, with my lips, pressing my cheek to her round belly.
I feel thankful that we are still nursing; I don't know how I would ever get my fix of hands-on baby time if she didn't have to collapse in my lap and snuggle close to me 5 or 6 times a day. She is such a baby on the move these days: crawling, cruising, chasing her dog, I would never be able to justify pinning her down to squeeze her meaty thigh if she didn't need to nurse. And as basic as her need is for her sustenance, my milk; so basic- so primal really- is my need to hold the tiny girl in my arms. When I curl her to me, Violet's slender fingers will find their way to my mouth, inspecting my teeth, my tongue, gently nipping at my lips, as if she understands the urge I have to gobble her up. She's willing, if only for the moments we are connected, baby to bosom, to let me have a nibble; to enjoy again what is surely going to be a fleeting consumption.
