I lie in the bed, boy on the left, girl on the right. She nurses, he snuggles in to touch every possible part of me he can reach. His nose against the back of my neck, belly against by back, arms and legs thrown over me. I’m sandwiched between them, unable to move without moving one of them first. It is the best possible confinement I could ask for: soft baby skin, warm “bank” pulled up over us, barely lit from the light on the sill, two little breaths growing deeper and deeper as they drop off to sleep.
I drink in moments like these. This is what we fought for, and I will not let it pass me by unacknowledged.