In the early evening, I wash my baby's tiny, round body. I coo to her as she kicks her chunky legs sending water over the edge of the baby bath and into the big bath. I gently wipe in the crevices of her warm flesh. I slosh water gently over her shock of black hair. She looks up at me with her brown eyes, sparkly (I didn't think eyes could sparkle until she existed), trusting. When I am done washing her, I wrap her in a towel, cradling her wet body to mine. I like to wrap her up so that only her round face is revealed.
After she is carefully dried, diapered, and clothed, I lay down beside her on the bed. I like to nurse her like this: on our sides, bodies nestled together. She looks up at me as she suckles, her eyes laughing because her mouth is busy. I relish the heaviness of her on my arm, and I pull her closer. Sometimes, if the older children are busy, H comes to lay with us. He spoons his body around my mine, one arm around my waist, the other around my head so that he holds the baby as well. We don't always talk during these moments. We just lay, the three of us, wrapped in each other. All of us nurturing, feeding the others.