I wrote the other day of the curious riddle of motherhood. How you would have me hold you all day long. All the while my mind will run over the things that need to be done: clothes to be washed, dinner to be cooked, and yet no hands to complete those tasks. For today and yesterday and the day before, my love, my hands have carried you. My arms, your comfort; my body, your cradle. For what is the smell of bread baking for dinner when compared to the sweet smell of your skin? What really needs to be washed? What importance are clothes when you are warmest when held bare against my skin? Let me not forget my importance today. May I count your every breath, that should one be missed by you, I may breathe in your place. May I gaze upon your face and see every lash that crowns your baby blues, and for each lash, a prayer of thanksgiving sound forth. May you stay in my arms today, for tomorrow you will be grown and gone and will my arms ever be the same-ever lonesome for you? For today may you stay ever mine, sweet babe.