I kissed my child for the first time last night and it was glorious. I’d only kissed him once so far as I lay on the operating table. It was through a hat so didn’t count. I wanted any memory of my coldsore to be gone, scared I’d kill him. I’d cheated slightly, pushing my cheek against his, or grazing my nose tip on his soft fluffy head.
I had planned to leave it a little longer but I couldn’t help it. He did his first big sick on my chest. Warm regurgitated milk flowed down my boobs and tummy (so that’s what cleavages are for) and pooled in my cardie and dress. I kissed him without realizing to tell him he was okay. Now I’m addicted. I’m making up for lost time.