Pitter patter

Last night Anthony was getting Hollis ready for a bath. From my spot in the living room I could hear his loving ministrations: the shower curtain pulled back, the bath tub filled with water, Anthony talking to Hollis about bath time, the water being shut off, more talking in Hollis' room, a pause in the husky-voiced murmurs, and then a little "slap, slap, slap" of bare fee on ceramic tile.

I jumped up and stood in the open knowing with a quickening of my heart that my little baby was tearing around the corner to come and see me before his bath, and most preciously, that he would be stark, raving naked.

There's nothing quite like the sight of a little bare body, so perfect, so pure, so blissfully free of any care, concern, or hang up.

His little feet quickened their pace as he saw me, slap, slap, slap, and I closed the distance between us and picked him up high in my arms. He squealed and wriggled, his soft skin molding to mine. I kissed him and squeezed him for good measure and passed him back to his dad who was standing in the doorway smiling, pleased with himself that his plan had panned out.

If I could bottle these moments I would. They are an elixir for the heart, especially mine. I drink deeply, fill up with the primal lusciousness of mothering, the deeply innate ability to appreciate bare feet on tile and sweet skin against mine. Such a gift...