The Mothering Instinct

This afternoon, Ian popped out to the shops to pick up some last minute bits for Christmas. From almost the moment that he left, Thomas screamed his lungs out. Nothing would console him. Not the boob. Not being held upright. Not being rocked, or sung to, nor gently jiggled. He didn’t want to be put down, and being held wasn’t enough.

When Ian arrived home, he found Thomas naked, apart from a nappy, and me naked from the waist up. The house was warm, but we were wrapped in a blanket, skin-to-skin, dancing in slow circles in the middle of the living room floor.

Both of our faces were stained with tears, but as our chests rose and fell in unison, Thomas let out contented little snores.

And I learned that I do have the mothering instinct after all.


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