There is the familiar cry in the night, a thin crotchety wail of irritation. Despite the advice of my doctor, my grandmother, my father, we always answer that cry.

Sometimes, in the dark, there is rocking. Sometimes there are songs. Sometimes there is nursing.

And sometimes, when there is nursing, there is a hand that reaches up to explore. Eyes shut, mouth moving, the hand seems to wander with a will of its own. Across the belly shussssh. Up the breastbone slissss. A firm palm held flat against my heart. Between the breast, into the cleavage he created.

To be touched with total desire and no sexuality is a gift even I - sleep-deprived for more than 9 months - can appreciate.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 9/11/2004 09:20:00 p.m.