There is only so much fluff a girl can take before she wants to start writing about narcotics, psychosis and alcohol again.

Inspired by a conversation I had with a couple of classmates a couple of weeks back.

And to think it all started with, "I am never going to have kids."

"Ditto that." 

//

I stare at you as your tiny hand grasps my littlest finger with the firmest of grips that tugs at my heartstrings. A smile eases its way into my face just watching you--but lately, it's like it's always been there, with just a coo from you, or a fragment of a moment of you waving your little arms about, wanting your mama. Mama---I laugh at the word--who would've thought it? I study you, my eyes drinking you in, at the same time wondering why my own mother never told me exactly how this felt--this warm emotion suffusing through my being, lending grace to my every movement concerning you. Love. A mother's love. 

As you lie sleeping against my chest, my hands--once so shaky, gradually turned steady as I get used to your warm weight, supporting you, I realize how much you look like your father, with your clouds of brownish-black hair, pale-pale skin, and that charming demeanor which I'm sure will enchant a multitude of girls in your time--but for now, you're mine. Mama's boy. You open your eyes and gurgle. There is a part of me I gave to you, after all--my eyes: quiet, searching, earnest. And in this moment, I am reassured. Though I know I can't always be there for you, my sweet, I've left you this--these eyes --to see, and for your soul to be seen.

Just like somebody has seen through mine.

//

Ugh. Too much fluff. And, hurriedly written because I'm off to the mall again. 

And ugh. Weird fluffy emotions. This happens only in my writing, okay? 

I have plans for the future, and it does not, in the near future, involve children.

Quoting my mother (because I am my mother's daughter, after all), "I am good with children, but not with my own." (I beg to differ with her, but still.)

Ugh. Fluff.