The following entry is one of Elizabeth's favorites from the archives of Table4Five.

How do you explain how much you physically love your child? This is my fourth draft of this post, trying to get the words just right.

Her Bad Mother, after writing her own post on that subject, invited her readers to try to answer that question themselves. She has collected over three dozen posts written by Mothers who are trying to put into words how they feel when they hold their child, why they feel an overwhelming need to kiss and touch their babies until it borders on addiction.

Last Friday, I took Kaitlyn and the boys to see “Cars” along with some friends. Kaitlyn alternated between my lap, the stroller and the carpeted floor in front of our seats. She ate Banana Puffs and tried to chew a straw. About 3/4 of the way through the movie, it was naptime, and she began to whine.

What veered me off track in my original post was remembering those horrible days in the hospital after her birth, when I was so sick from the stomach flu that I couldn’t even hold her. And then we learned that she did not need to be rocked to sleep, or even held while she slept, that she wanted to just lay down and be left to drift off herself. Only very occasionally would she fall asleep in my arms while drinking her bottle.

That day in the movie theater, I figured I would keep her calm and quiet until the show ended, and then she would sleep in the car on the way home. I picked her up and carried her over to the side of the theater, down the ramp leading to the exit, and stood there in the dark holding her up on my shoulder. I watched the movie and rocked back and forth.

I felt her head drop on my shoulder, but I figured she was just resting it there. And then I felt her breathing slow down, and I held my breath too. Cautiously, I lowered my face until it rested between her jaw and shoulder, and breathed her in. I kissed the soft swell of her cheek and the corner of her mouth. I whispered shhhhh.

And then suddenly she was asleep. Her body went limp and was somehow both weightless and heavy in my arms at the same time. I lowered my head even farther, resting it gently on her shoulder, and listened to her breathe. For that moment, every thing else went away. I couldn’t hear the movie or see the screen. It was just me and her and nothing else, because she was giving me a precious gift.

She wanted me. She needed to sleep, and she trusted me to help her. A baby who only wanted to be put in bed awake and allowed to put herself to sleep was letting me hold her as she slept. It might have only been 15 or 20 minutes, but it was wonderful.

One day, she will be too big to carry, and I’ll miss her little arms around my neck, one hand patting the back of my shoulder, the other hand slowly scratching my shirt. I’ll miss rubbing her back, slipping my hand under her shirt to feel her warm, soft skin. I’ll miss those rare times when she falls asleep drinking her bottle, and I get to spend a few minutes running my fingers over her little hands, stroking her velvet-soft cheeks and gently kissing her forehead and the corners of her mouth.

The love I feel for my baby encompasses the physical, the emotional, the psychological. I couldn’t not kiss and touch her. She is me, and I am her, and as long as she wants me, I will be available to her. I will kiss her on the lips, the cheeks, the forehead. I will bury my face in her neck and whisper shhhhh. I will love her, physically and otherwise, forever.