Love is love is love

Sometimes Poppy likes to be held like a baby.  He nestles in my arms with his little head pressed against my neck and I rub his back.  When he is in my arms like this, I get very peaceful and calm.  I end up softly singing to him while gently rocking back and forth as I sit.  Half the time I think that if anyone saw me doing this they would think I had lost it.  The other half replies, "I don't care."

I held my kids like this.  I sang to them and I rocked them.  With my son it was mostly in the middle of the night when he couldn't get back to sleep.  With my daughter it was mainly trying to get her sleepy enough to take her afternoon nap.  I loved the feel of their small bodies pressed to my chest.  The smell of their heads and the feel of their hair as I tilted my head down to kiss theirs.  When Poppy requests this kind of time with me, I do it as much for him as I do it for me.

The only other person Poppy cuddles with like that is my mother.  When we visit sometimes she walks around her house holding him and talking to him.  He loves it!  My mother calls him, "Pee Wee" or "Peaty".   It's very cute.

When we were having our quiet time this morning, a very clear memory came popped in my head. I was very young and my family was at our summer camp, aka Camp Toothacres because almost every male in our family was a dentist.  Something happened that got me all in a twitter.  My older sister, Reesa, saw it as a golden opportunity to tease me. Since she is three years older I did not have the vocabulary needed to fight back so I screamed at her whatever I could muster.  This was even funnier to her.  I must have been loud enough that my father appeared out of nowhere and scooped me up into his arms, cooed to me, and rubbed my back as he walked with me.  At 53 I can still remember how it felt physically and the sweet relief that washed over my heart and mind. My father was my savior and I was complete.

Reesa tried to tell him why I was awful and he just said that I was little.  That took the wind out of her sails.  Poor Reesa!  As the oldest of 4 children, she was always put in the position of having to understand except when I would bite her but that's a whole other story for another time.

I have a lot of memories of my father.  This is one of my favorites and I think this is why there are princess stories.  Dad was the original prince and as little girls grow up, they want to feel that same kind of love and protection from their mates.