I wrote this quite some years ago (c. 1996) when I had two babies in diapers.

I like the smell of my baby in my arms.
I like her sweat.
I don’t mind her spit-up.
I don’t even mind the smell
That reminds me it’s time to change her diapers.
I can sleep with my baby in my arms for hours.
If I have held her or nursed her for a long time,
With her head cradled in the hollow of my shoulder,
She may even start to smell a little bit like me.

Sometimes, when I am holding my baby in my arms,
I remember faces of mothers
Who lost their children.
They turned their faces to the side,
Searching.
They are rooting,
Searching for their children.
Even if you lose a child when she is twelve,
You will remember her as an infant.
The moist plump baby hands.
The baby smells.
The sweet clear trusting eyes.