The routine of it;

Motherhood.

Bottle, nap, diaper.

Bottle, nap, diaper.

Wash,

Lots of wash.

Bathe,

Rinse.

Repeat.

Each day brings with it an unwritten dog eared checklist.

To the outsider it may seem monotonous.

To her, this routine,

It is the song she sings to him.

Eight months in,

She smiles as her sweet baby boy wriggles from her hands, as he bats at the rubber bath toys.

Remembers that just yesterday she was apprehensive to put such a little baby, in such a big tub.

Tomorrow she’ll certainly be heard hollering at the boy and his dog;

Tousled hair, top speed down the stairwell,

covered in mud (preferring it to soap, the both of them).

The next morning she’ll rap her knuckles against the door, as steam escapes from the crack where the worn door meets the floor;

Exhaling the words as she inhales the smell of -shaving cream?

Shaving cream.

“You’ve been in there forever….”

Eight months in,

My, how he has grown.

Diaper, bottle, nap.

Even as the routine repeats, seemingly the same,

It continues to mark his height on the wall.

She hugs him in a white towel,

Inhales his baby powder smell,

Attempts to memorize…

His two front teeth, his chubby little feet, the sound of his giggle, the shape of his tears,

Red marks from the elastic of his diapers,

The curve of his neck,the wave of his hair as it sneaks onto his forehead, the way he sucks his binky to the left side of his mouth,

And the rise of his chest as he breathes,

As he dozes,

Still small,

In her arms.