the shape of you

I hear three-year old feet padding softly toward my bedside. I try to ignore them, it’s too early for her to be up, and I think ahead to how much coffee I’ll need to get through the morning. I sigh, but she climbs over my somnolent form anyway and settles herself as close to me as she can. Her little body is turned toward me; my eyes are closed, but I hear the soft rhythmic popping sound that means she is sucking her thumb. She takes one warm hand out from beneath the covers, and rests it gently on my arm. After a minute or two, she starts rubbing my arm softly and then I hear her quietly whisper “Mommy. I like the shape of you.”

I smile, and snuggle her closer, and blue eyes meet across mere inches of pillow. I look at her with her soft blond hair splayed out, and think to myself no, I don’t want to be awake now, but yes, if I have to wake up then this is the way to go.

I like the shape of you too, little girl. Indeed I do.