I pulled myself out of bed this morning at 5:30 to get ready for work, already behind schedule. As I was gathering my clothes Little Whompers began to stir. I slid back into the bed, still warm from my habitation there moments before, and she instinctively turned toward me. Eyes closed, in that twilight of consciousness, her little hands groping, mouth open. I pulled her close and she latched on, one hand squeezing and kneading, the other wrapped around my finger. She only nursed for a few minutes, long enough for me to gaze further across the bed to watch Big Whompers sleep. Such a short time ago she was the Little One, herself a nursling. It is hard not to expect her to be too big now, not so far removed from a baby herself.
Little Whompers unlatched, returned to blissful deep sleep, her hands still holding me. I laid there a few minutes longer, trying to imprint her on my memory, pondering the gift of these beautiful girls. Absent, for once, was the usual frantic feeling of my days. The relplacement? Surprising serenity, so often lurking there if I will just pause to enjoy.