Tonight I held you

You were soaking wet straight out of the tub. You didn't want to get dressed. Instead you said your four-year-old self wanted to "be a baby" wrapped warm in your fresh towel and close in my arms. I quickly obliged.

Your hair was soaking wet. I rocked you-- feeling the weight of your 110 percentile body on my lap-- and loving that heaviness.

You asked me to itch your nose and eyebrows so that you didn't have to take out your arms from my tight hold. Thinking it was the water still dripping down from your hair, I wiped it away from your skin. But no. You wanted it itched. So I scratched your nose as well.

Your eyes began to drift. Your clothes were sitting by my side waiting to be worn. But I held you.

I held you until I couldn't anymore. Until I had no choice but to remove your soaked-through towel, dress your bare skin, and put your dead weight body in bed.

Your hair was still moist and as I tucked your Walle blanket around you--I ran my fingers through it once again.

Thank you for letting me hold you, my baby.

and thank you my daughter for suddenly having the urge to take pictures around the house like mommy.