What I miss


I miss the smell of my babies.  I miss the unbearably soft feel of their hair, nestled under my chin as I rocked them to sleep.

I miss the warm, soapy smell of a damp little body fresh out of the bathwater, wrapped in a towel and snuggled in my arms.  I miss the smell of sweet breath shared in a good night kiss, clean and pure and unspoiled by life.

I miss the cool salty taste of my baby’s neck on a warm spring day. I miss the feel of an impossibly small and fragile hand pressed against my cheek.   I miss the taste of a little palm, sweet and clean on my lips.

I miss the gentle weight of my baby on my hip, balanced in sleep, trusting me to hold her as I made my way through the house.   I miss lifting my sleeping child and carrying him to bed, holding him close to my heart as I fold back the cool sheets, tucking him safe under the blankets, smoothing his hair back and dropping one last kiss on his velvet cheek.

I miss them at night when I get ready for bed. I miss them when I wake up and go to start my day.  I miss the sound of them in the house, the smell of their skin, the feel of them in the air around me.

I miss my babies.

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