for me the scent, the feel of the tiny wisps of hair on the head of a babe was the golden payment, the source of nourishment for my soul, the small counter act against the exhaustion that comes with being the mother of those tiny, fragile, yet ever so fierce, little things.
in those early sleep-deprived days, as i would nurse, i would cradle my baby's head and feel the peach fuzz wisps of hair on his head. and when the wee one would finally fall off the breast into a sleep induced drunken milk stupor, i would bring him up to lay on my chest, his head just under my chin, and i too would fall asleep with the quiet sounds of his breath, and the soft, silken hair gently touching my face, letting me know that all was well in the world.
now they are all older, and i still kiss their heads, lay my cheek upon their mops of hair. in these small moments when they allow such a thing, i can feel deep in my heart, that somewhere in there, through all the ways they have grown and are growing, is the tiny newborn that was at once so fierce and so fragile.