Pause

One moment, she is cruising around the table, carefully examining the remote.  The next she is holding onto the couch, looking up at me and shrieking in a demanding way.   "Mamamamamamamamamama."

I tilt my head to the side and scoop her up, and she immediately dives at my chest.

"Ah.  Milk?" I ask, calmly, opening and closing my hand.

She looks up at me with furrowed eyebrows and starts to bang on my chest with both hands.

"Well, all right, I was just ASKING."

I lift my shirt, and she nestles against me, nursing.  Five minutes later she is asleep.

I can't really explain what comes over me in that moment.  Her face, turned up towards mine, with her tiny eyes fluttered shut makes me catch my breath in my throat for a minute.  Curled up into me like this, she feels like she is still my tiny newborn baby.  Her face, though, at the same time extremely impressive and completely innocent gives her away.  She looks like a person.

She looks like me.

I want to take a shower.  I want to empty my dishwasher, fold my laundry, write.  I want to do yoga and run.  And I don't want to do anything but stare into her face forever.

I press my lips repeatedly to her forehead, and her eyes flutter but don't open.

In two weeks, she won't be a baby anymore.  I've never needed a pause button more than I do in this moment.