On Winging It

by Jo on May 15, 2012

I swear, if he could he would make a valiant effort at climbing back inside the womb.

(But since there’s not a chance in hell that’s ever going to happen, he has to make due with close-knit embraces instead)

 

He squirms and he rolls and he arches his way into my arms

burrowing his head into my chest

and then his breathing deepens

his muscles relax and for a split second

his soul merges with mine

and suddenly he is finally asleep

 

I lay there and remember

all of the times I burrowed into my father’s arms

when there was no safer place on the planet than laying there next to him

 

my own personal superhero

 

And in this moment

as I lay with my son in my arms

a million doubts racing through my mind while his steady breathing assures me he’s none the wiser

I think about the fact that I’m super glad he doesn’t know I’m just winging it right now.

 

Because I totally am.

Just winging it.

 

Huh.

 

Which means that while he was promising to keep me safe

while he promised me the world, while he lay next to me and swore to protect me and keep me from harm

my dad was most likely winging it too

 

And for some reason that makes me feel much better

because as far as winging it goes, he did a pretty kick ass job.

 

I can only hope it’s genetic.

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