There are dirty diapers on the floor, rolled up and waiting for someone to notice them and move them to the overly stuffed garbage can. Kids books are piled all over the couch along with two half-eaten bananas. There are french fries under the table and paper plates all over the counter. Somehow children’s clothing is scattered across the entire room again, along with small piles of sand and the random rock or two that fell out of their clothing when they stripped it off. A few withered dandelions lay on the rug. My body is still foreign to me, old curves and new ones, stretched muscles and skin with nothing inside to fill it out anymore.
There is a sleeping one week old baby on my chest. His legs are curled up under him, and he’s completely relaxed against me. I can hear him breathing, feel his little heart beating against mine. I can smell that new born baby smell, and his milk breath. I can kiss his soft fuzzy head whenever I want to.
His tiny hand clutches my shirt. His lip twitches and then he smiles.
I have no where better to be, and no expectation to do better at what I am doing today.
I am free.