She cried out in her sleep last night.
I waited, held my breath.
Silence.
She cried out again. No, no I don’t want to!
She didn’t wake me. I was staring at the ceiling berating myself when her voice split the silence. I waited a few more seconds, to see if the child would settle.
She didn’t.
I padded to the door and went to her. She was dreaming, a nightmare. Eyes closed, mouth a rosy red O. Unruly curls spilled off her cheeks and onto her pillow, her lovey was wrapped around her arm. If I let her be, she would settle back into her slumber.
I reached in and gathered her to me, carrying her to my bed.
Her body stilled and I watched her in the dim slice of light from the hallway. Rarely do I see her peaceful; she is a very busy girl.
But lying there in my bed, lanky limbs stretched out to take up the lion’s share of the mattress, I realized that my baby has gone.
Instead there is a girl. A tall girl, with strong, shapely calves and very distinct opinions. A girl who seeks out the letters that make up her name. A girl who can pin her older cousin in ten second flat.
A girl who is growing.
I pulled her in close, laying my head in the silk of her hair. Breathing deeply, I smelled her cherry shampoo and thought of all the moments of the past three years. The day of her birth, so bittersweet. The day she said “I love you” for the first time.
The day I saw in her eyes that she knew she was mine.
And that I was hers.
Together we slept, my heart aching with shame. My daughter is trying to become a person. That is such hard work. Who am I to make her journey harder with my gruff words and my impatience?
It is impossible to tell you how I love her. Words are my trade, my salvation. But for her? The alphabet is inadequate.
I helped my mother turn off the lights tonight before we went to bed, knowing that most nights, this mundane task reminds her of a man who would lock up for her, keeping her safe, a man who lies miles from home under a blanket of new-fallen snow.
I watched her move through the house and thought of how she is mine, and I am hers.
And how the love and the care, the concern and the compromise, the work and yes, the weeping, never ends, just circles on and on throughout time.
I was finally comforted.
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***and the best blog post of the year goes to CAC**** A, you really are incredible. You’re a great mama.
I’ve been lurking for a bit and just had to tell you that this was so beautiful. It’s the first blog post I’ve EVER read, anywhere, that brought tears to my eyes. The Poo is a lucky girl.
It was only after I became a parent that I could fully appreciate the oneness that mothers feel with their children and how hard it is to bend that bond to allow the one to become two distinct individuals. Painful, really.
Beautiful post, beautifully written. I am tearful.
Does it help — or is it simply trite — to tell you that so much of this will get better as she gets older?
It will, it really will.
xxoo
(Lovely post.)
Words can not describe how beautiful this post is.
I’m glad you’re feeling better, honey!
Yes. Yes. Beautiful.
Love and comfort to all three of you girls. Daughters, mothers, mothers-to-be. How wonderful.
Thanks for sharing this peek of your life with us. . . the comforting, lovely parts of it as well.
THe juxtaposition of this post with the one before — yeah, that’s motherhood in a nutshell for me. It is that swing between feeling totally inept at keeping your sh-t together and feeling so in love with your kids you can’t bear to leave them alone while they sleep.
Mothers and daughters, round and round. You captured it perfectly. Lovely.
What Emily R said.
Three is the hardest age of early childhood. Truly. For you, I mean. And possibly for her too. But try to cut yourself some slack. Four is much better.
Thanks for expressing this so beautifully.
Cheers
Yes, me too — What Emily R said.
A very sweet look at motherhood and relationships. Glad you are feeling some comfort and peace (I hope).
Oh, mama.
God that was a gorgeous post! Exactly.
“I realize that my baby is gone”
I’m right there with you.
Lovely.
Best blog post I have read in a very long time. Sat here wondering if we will feel the same about ours in the dead of night… when they finally arrive.
(we have been busy nest building today)
My baby girl is no longer a baby, either.
I realized this when I carried this sleepy child back to her bed after she awoke at midnight to use the potty. Her head was on my shoulder and her feet knocked my knees.
She’s over half my height at 3 and will surely pass me up by the time she’s 8!
Aw you’re just TRYING to make us cry, aren’t you??
It is impossible to tell you how I love her…so true. No one can understand the depth of love for our babies. I wish it didn’t make me so sad to see mine grow. It really hurts. I breathe them in as much as I can, and then more while they sleep.
Perfectly written. Hope you’re feeling better.
Wow, what a moving post. I came over from A Spot of T, to check out your blog she is raving about. This post reminds me of the Robert Munsch book “Love You Forever”. I cry when I read that too. Thank you for touching my heart today.
Oh my god, you just gave me a serious case of chills. What a beautiful and heartwrenching post.
sniff. oh sniff. comforted, indeed.
What a gorgeous post, so much of what you’ve been saying lately rings so true with my son and I. Three has been so challenging (the countdown to 4 has begin) and you summed it up perfectly.
Hope you are feeling better and you got out of Rochester safely. I’m so glad we had a chance to see each other, no matter how difficult it was to talk!
And it never goes away, the bodies just get bigger. Mostly Bossy’s.
Damn. You’ve made me cry. Beautiful post.
Wonderful post. I feel the same about my Zach-man-do who is also three.
Oh wow. Wow. I think this may be my favorite post by you ever. And that’s saying a lot. I am moved to tears. Wonderful.
“My daughter is trying to become a person. That is such hard work. Who am I to make her journey harder with my gruff words and my impatience?”
God, I really need to take these words to heart.
Once again, your words from the heart, echo mine. Bring me comfort and bring tears to my eyes.
Beautiful post!!
My baby isn’t a baby anymore either. I realized this when my 8 year old asked me if her butt looked big in the jeans she was wearing. Of course she still needs Momma when she has a bad dream and crawls into bed with me early in the morning. I love bundling her up next to me like I did when she was a baby.
Amazing.
Aww, what a way with words you have – perfect post for me today, thank you.
beautiful. I have to be ferklemped this early in the morning? I think I need to print this and keep it by my computer. I love how you write about your daughter. And then suddenly it becomes about so much more without me even knowing. Does it write as effortlessly as it read? beautiful.
I think your daughter is a tad older than mine. Aside from these tender moments in the middle of the night, do you notice Poo taking stock of her growth and the changing dynamics with you?
Right now, E does this by getting angry and telling me that *she* is *my* mom, and that I’m not doing it right. And then she sinks right into forced-baby-land and needs to be rescued because simple things are too hard. This sort of transformation happens in 60 seconds.
Anyway, it’s interesting how they telegraph their own anxiety with growing.
And you write beautifully and help a lot of people by sharing honestly.
I hope I can remember this as Bird becomes a person. It is so beautiful.