From Chicken Soup for the Mother of Preschooler's Soul

In His Second Year

Who is getting more pleasure from this rocking, the baby or me?

Nancy Thayer

I love the time when he first wakes

From his afternoon nap.

I listen for the pad of his bare feet in the hall.

He stands there, silently gazing at me, yawning

And rubbing his eyes with his fists.

I gather him up,

Still soft and rosy with sleep.

He curls in my lap,

His head against me, his eyes half open,

And together we silently rock.

He is so gentle, so little

And so very vulnerable.

I hold him and love him selfishly;

He is my baby again

For these few short minutes.

Then slowly his drowsiness dissolves.

He wiggles and squirms to get away

And explore this all-too-exciting world.

I can hold him no longer.

He struggles down and runs laughing from me.

I return to the kitchen,

But I am content.

For a fleeting, too-brief moment,

I had captured a butterfly in its flight.

Michele Ivy Davis
As appreared in Home Life Magazine

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