When my five year old son is not feeling well and climbs into my lap and hugs his cheek into his favorite spot on my bosom--right in between the cushy parts so his ear rests flat on my chest--I feel my power as a mom. He asks me to rock him and I do. Just like I did when he was new. And I feel an energy pass between us. I cannot explain exactly what it feels like. Moms know it. In that place, I feel the most capable. Nobody can touch my skills when I'm mothering in the cut--that place you can't map a route to, but when you're there with your child you both know it. As my chin rests on his head and as we rock, I know that the sound of my heartbeat, my warmth and the way my chest rises and falls with every breath is like a balm on his every physical, mental and emotional boo-boo. It is sacred. Mother and child, in a sacred space reminiscent of our beginning. He will never know the comfort of my womb again and I will never be as sure that I can protect him from anything that could possibly bring him harm. But we get as close as we can to that place, in the cut, as we rock. It's like a balm. It doesn't fix anything. Not really. Still, we stay like that until we both feel like it's safe enough to let go.