Everything I Want To Ask Her.

Questions and wonderings flitter through my head all day long.  With everything I want to ask her. Like butterflies they escape, purposely set out from open hands, knowing they can only be released, abandoned.  Butterflies liberate, lost in the wind.  My questions sink and bury; no sense holding on to them.  But I can't help but feel the weight some days of everything I want to ask her.

This is only freckles of everything I want to ask her.  Everything I can't ask her.  Everything I'd cling to her to know.  Her voice would help me trust my own.  Her hug would feel like safe embrace.  Rest.  Oh to be a mother, Oh to wish for my mother, Oh to know the answers to everything I want to ask her....

I'd ask her about connecting; what made me, me.  I'd ask her about walking early. And crawling on my knee.

I’d ask her about clothes size, and independent play.  I’d ask her about books.  And The Word along the way.

I'd ask her about pregnancy and nursing in the day.  I'd ask her about in-laws. And Connie/Deb Tea Day.

I'd ask her about drool, and then avoiding dairy. I’d ask her about bottles.  And growing mama-wary.

I'd ask her about waking gas, and wide-alert-eyes.  I'd ask her about schedules.  And thoughts on Babywise.

I'd ask her about crying, and sleeping through the night.  I’d ask her about cereal.  And waking morning light.

I'd ask her about jar food, and baby feet that sweat.  I’d ask her about sunny days. And wearing SPF.  

I’d ask her about teaching, talking what we see.  I’d ask her about making meals.  And deciding to have three.

I'd ask her about mothering, her without one too.  I’d ask her about empty holes.  And mentors that she knew.

I'd ask her about travel here, tomorrow and today.  I'd ask her about hugging me.  And telling it’s okay.

I'd ask her about Littles, see those bright blue eyes.  I’d ask her about Wiggles.  But in heaven she resides.

Hold To Love.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Walk in with empty hands and willing heart and hold that little life she loves.  Nuzzle close that babies neck, swing from hip, or sing to ear.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  She'll squirm and duck and say it's okay.  She'll act embarrassed because she needs you.  Slide hands to pink; release that mama from feeling both.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Tell her the beauty of little red curls.  Delight in tiny baby-coos and night-bath splash.  Hear that two-step giggle and shine because you do.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.   Hand dinner in the doorway and strut that mama-sway.  Take that crying cacoon from wearied arms then swap stories for empathy.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Let her bent body bent drop that bundle in your arms.  Listen to that baby-gurgle.  Rock that tiny whimper. And encourage that mama while you do.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Wiggle those feet and kiss those cheeks.  Swaddle that baby in arms so that mama can eat.  Tell her stories with your eyes; tales with your tongue.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Hold her baby so she can hold her man. To shower all-clean and smell all-afresh and dress all-neat.  Feel beautiful and shinny and strutting in heels.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  She just needs a break.  She loves that flesh she bore, that wrinkled baby-skin. But learning still she is, to reinvent the self within.

How to love a newborn mama? Hold her baby.  Jostle the colic, the crying, the child.  On sidewalks, knolls, and parking lots.  Neighbor the night-talk and walk the long afternoon.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Swoosh in to shush that squalling baby. Let love wrap arms around, rhythmic bouncing against breast. Stroke feet, massage limbs, slide fingers through hair.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Nest that little one while she naps.  Coddle that silk-skin while she sleeps.  Allow her to be weak.  To rest, relax, rejuvenate.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Carry away that backseat bundle.  With swimsuits and shade and strong-willed hands.  Dot on hair-bows while rest in chairs. Side-step in circles; show you care.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Cradle til mama begs her back; remembering to miss her. Let her wish once more for fullness in arms, warmth on chest.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Love what she loves.  She loves that little baby.  She loves every roll-thigh and chubby-chin and arm-dimple. And she loves that you love that baby too.