Watching him sleep

Hey folks, I haven't been around in while, but here I am. This is the first time in a long time I've been in a "normal" relationship, i.e. one where I live in the same country/same town as my significant other. I put normal in speech marks because these days long distance and internet relationships are relatively accepted as a normal way to date/court/be with some one and I'm covering my ass. Anyway back to what I was going to write about, which is, "watching him sleep", which I find myself doing a lot. We've yet to move in together, don't ask about that one I don't even fully understand it, but mostly at weekends I watch him sleep, huddled under his duvet. It's like looking at the child I hope to have with him, there's a certain amount of passionate possesion I feel when I watch his sleeping and occasionally frowning features, his roughly messy brown hair and his slightly round aquiline nose... (believe me I realise I'm contraditing myself on the nose thing)... He's a hulk of a man, wide protective shoulders and his towering height, something I appreciate since I'm no dolly, measuring in at 183 cm, I'm lucky enough to find a man taller than I am. Ask most tall women about whether height matters in a man, and she'll probably tell you "No!" but then if she had to pick between a man taller than her and one smaller, chances are she'll take the tall guy. Anyway, getting back to my subject, he's taller and wider than me, which is... in my humble opinion... the way it should be and yet when he's curled up under the blanket his cheeks pink with warmth, the delicate brown eyelashes lying on his cheek below a maternal, possessive creature crawls out of the bowels of my psyche and all I want to do is stroke his soft brown hair and make sure he has enough blankets. I've experienced this sensation in the past, with others I've loved, and I've come to the conclusion often enough that it's my nature to be this way with the men I love. I am a maternal creature in the depths of my soul and I was created to be both mother and partner. I used to be filled with ambitions, ambitions to travel, become a published author, to be a free-spirit, but at the tender age of 25 I'm devoid of ambition, excluding that of settling down and growing roots. I'm at my most content when I'm caring for someone I love, be that cooking, cleaning, ironing shirt or fixing holes in socks. I am pathetically a 1950's woman in the 21st century, something which when I analyse I realise I'm glad for, since I readily take for granted the freeness and emancipation that comes with womanhood in 2oo7 but perhaps may not have been so readily given in 1957. So I return with fondness to the sight of my love, cuddled up in a nordic duvet, asleep, dreams filling his head and feel the sensations of the growing maternal creature inside my bosom.