My son tucks his head into my shoulder, his arms wrap across my chest in a snug fit. I kiss his little head and the smooth spot between
his earlobe and cheek, then just above his brow where heavy eyes near their dreams.
Warm under thick blankets, this perfect cuddle serves as a safe place for him, tucked in between mother and father, away from worries. This is where we want to be when our hearts are broken, when our dreams are slashed, when curve balls come our way and reality settles in. This too is the point I will want to return to when he gets too busy for me. This is a finite time, when I get to occupy so much of his consciousness. This moment is for me too.
All the 39 weeks and 5 days of waiting, of long work hours and sore feet, missing out on caffeine and poached eggs, the pains of labour and the heartbreak of intensive care, this is what I had always hoped being a parent would feel like.