Or when I'm picking at that yellow scaly scalp skin both of my babies have had (because I just can't help myself when it comes to that and baby boogers).
When P. was born, possibly because she was a preemie, her skull plates stayed in the birth position for so long that it seemed like her fontanelle was extra large for an extra long time. Touching her head scared me a little. Washing Bo's head at bathtime is something I do as fast as possible and so not particularly well.
Plus, it pulsates. My number one point of reference for things that pulsate is science fiction, and in sci-fi, things that pulsate are seldom good. Most of the time they are downright yucky.
But last night Bo had his gorgeous round head buried under my chin while he snoozed on my chest and I could feel his heartbeat right through his fontanelle. A calm heartbeat. I snuggled him closer. Suddenly that weird opening in his big ol' head wasn't so scary.
Instead, it was a reminder that he'll grow and it'll close and he'll sleep on me less and full-time nursing will give way to real food and maybe daycare then preschool and on and on forever. I think about that stuff a lot now that the mister and I are officially two and through.
And so I try to savor every sleepy weird happy dancing moment with the two littles I have now because in just a minute or three they're going to be the two kids I have now and just a minute after that the two young adults listening to music too darn loud before turning into a couple of real, live grownup people who live who knows where.
All that from a fontanelle. Motherhood is sometimes pretty philosophical, ya know? All you can do is make sure to love on 'em a lot and hope you can remember a even quarter of the amazing stuff.