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I thought I would
switch gears a bit today and write about something a little more serious,
a little more poignant and a lot closer to my heart.
My daughter.
I
am just flabbergasted at how infatuated with her I still am today, two
and a half years after her birth. When she was first born, I would sit
for hours, just watching her sleep, her face so peaceful and perfect. I
tried to memorize the curves of her baby cheeks, her baby nose and the
placement of the fuzz on her little baby head. Now, those memories are
faded and worn, and I find myself searching the deepest recesses of my
brain to find the wrinkle where those details are hiding. But, I also
find myself doing the same thing with my daughter today, and it still
amazes me.
I can still stare at my daughter and, after all this
time of being a mother to her, can't believe that she was made from me.
Although her nine month gestation was all too real, and I can still
feel the kicks of her feet in my ribcage, it still seems surreal that I
carried her around inside of me and gave birth to her so effortlessly.
How could my body know what to do? How is it that she made her way into
the world like a wise old sage and changed my life with one breath and
a wail? Surely there is some kind of magic involved, for how can we, as
humans, be so fallible, yet create such perfection?
This
afternoon I found myself swelling with joy and pride and, yes,
disbelief, as I looked at my daughter--her unblemished little face,
crowned by golden silky tendrils, her smile so big and genuine. This is
my baby girl?
I am still waiting to wake up from this dream of motherhood, to find
that somehow these past two and a half years were all a figment of my
imagination. How else could I have ended up with this perfect little
creature--this creature that feels like she is still a part of me, and
if she were not there, I would lose myself?
To this day, I am
still excited to see her in the morning, after a long night of her
absence. I miss her terribly when she is away from me, with an ache
that starts in my belly and travels to my heart until I feel my heart
won't pump until I see her again. I still love touching her face,
feeling the softness of her skin, running my fingers through her hair,
dressing her, bathing her, holding her hand, kissing her goodnight. And
when she utters those four words "I love you Mommy," my heart still
grows to three times its size and sometimes, yes sometimes, I even well
up with tears.
How can I still feel this way after two and a half years?
I don't know. But I hope I can hang on to it for just a little while longer.
Or forever.
