Wednesday, April 3, 2013
I am hers.
Early last week, my girl came down with a little cold. Nothing serious, just some coughs and sneezes that started in the afternoon that told me instinctively it would be a long night. Nights and naps are always the toughest when your little one isn't feeling great. That night was no exception, and with nearly hourly wake-ups and cries for "mommy can hold you just one minute?", we were all tired in the morning. So when I heard her crying about 20 minutes into her nap the next day, I decided to take one for the team and hold and rock her so she could sleep.
It's not something I do often anymore... my tiny little girl grows longer and heavier by the day. And frankly, I want her to sleep in her own bed. But there are times, like that day, when it's necessary. I just wanted my baby to get some much needed rest.
So we cuddled up in the rocking chair, with all her snuggies (her lovies), a cozy blanket and I'm sure a baby doll or stuffed animal friend. I smoothed her hair back off her forehead and rocked and rocked. And within minutes, I could tell she was fast asleep.
It is still a wonder to me, this girl. This child, who I carried in my own body, who (for now), prefers me to all others when she's hurt or upset or in need of comfort.
In her sleep, she crawled all over me. Her arms flung across my body, her face found it's way into the crook of my neck... she rearranged and refolded herself on top of me mindlessly, unconsciously. I was poked and pushed and bumped and not all that comfortable, really. But I sat there, rocking softly, knowing that my very presence- my body, my scent, my familiar form and touch- was a comfort. That she felt so completely at ease in my arms. As though I was an extension of her. As she is an extension of me.
I don't imagine that when she's 12 and gangly, she'll still want to watch Cinderella with me on the couch every night, crawling all over my chest and face as she sings along to Bibbity Bobbity Boo. She won't cry out for me to hold her and rock her when she's not feeling great. She'll grow into her own limbs, steadily and cautiously moving away from my arms, resisting my hourly requests for a kiss and squeeze. It makes me cry to even think about.
But for now, I am hers. Hers to nestle into, hers to reach for, to cry out for in the middle of a rough night. She carved her way into my heart and body the moment she was conceived. She claimed a part of me that is hers alone.
And I give it to her readily, easily. Without hesitation. Wholeheartedly.
I am hers.