Every night I sneak into Tomi’s room just before I go to bed and give him a last snack. It’s called a Dream Feed. I pick him up, sleepy and heavy, and we snuggle together, belly to belly, as he nurses in the dim glow of the nightlight. I play with his soft floofy hair, and watch his eyelashes resting on his cheeks, and he grips my thumb with his entire fat tiny hand.
As he nurses I sometimes reflect on the circumstances of his birth. I think about the love and support provided by Johnny and my sister, and the positive feeling I have about the night he was born. His warm wetness as he lay on my chest, and his unexpectedly long and curly hair.
Sometimes I watch his face as he sleeps in my arms. I study his features with his long eyelashes and snub nose. I think about how much I love him. Someday, some thirty years from now, he will lie asleep in bed and a woman (or possibly a man) will watch him as he sleeps and reflect on how much she loves him – almost as much as I do now.
I hold my sleeping baby and reflect on all the generations of mothers past who have held their babies close, wishing for them a better life and opportunities. I feel lucky to have been born when and where I was, but as a mother I still wish a better life for my son. What will his future hold? What kind of a legacy are we leaving for him? What will the world have to offer him, and what will he give back to it?
The Dream Feed is one of my favourite moments of the day.
It’s like a dark and sweet secret between my boy and I.