The Sunspire please twirl me one more time and don’t stop spinning me

Oaxaca’s little apple head shot up, bobbling and wavering with the unsteadiness of infancy. He was swept to her breast with fluid possessiveness, giving no more protest than a handful of loose change or dice, and atop his wiggly noodle neck his head tipped back at an exaggerated angle. He seemed to peer at her, though his eyes were still sealed shut, and he made of this insignificant gesture a momentous thing: though he scarcely knew what he was doing or why, his puppy-blunt muzzle fell open as a little cough of a laugh sprang free. It was nice to be free of the oppressive weight of his siblings, and the ticklish sensation of his mother’s nose against his crown was so appealing to him that he gave a wriggle or two of pleasure. All four of his little toothpick limbs splayed out until he was utterly spread eagle, and he let fall his chin with a sigh of contentment so deep he almost seemed to deflate.