He falls asleep cupping my cheek with his pudgy little hand, tiny contented snores escaping his nose, his lips fluttering and sucking in search of his long lost friends, my breasts.
Calmed by his warmth, I think about my latest round of parental introspection, my quest for maternal perfection.
I have no better chance of becoming a perfect parent in this life than I do of becoming a perfect human being. Motherhood is who I am, not some hobby I picked up to master and then move on from. I need to learn to somehow be happy with myself without settling or stopping my progress.
Is it possible to be comfortable in your own skin while still holding out hope for the ideal?