Two and Half/ On Growth
I looked down at her splayed across the bed.
Her face still and at rest.
Her body a starfish. 5 points all calm and sunken ever so slightly in to the bed, as if it was sand beneath her.
I watched her stomach move softly up and down.
I reached out, pausing, and then softly stroked her blonde hair.
She didn't move.
I thought of all the moments all at once of the past weeks and days and hours.
Her being so full, so present, so alive. She takes up and holds a room with such dominance and unknowing power.
Her ability some days to instantly fall to sleep, and others to stay up talking to herself, or me, until the hours pass and she's finally ready to sleep.
When she's sleepy in the morning and I scoop her up she molds in to me like she did in my womb. A part of me, solely reliant on my being for hers to exist.
But, when I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror I see how long her legs are. I feel her weight in my arms. I know she's growing every single second.
And I embrace it. I adore it. I relish in every new thing she is and does. Because I know that is how it is supposed to happen.
I look forward to the future, honor the past and hold tight in the present.
This morning, as I was putting her shoes on she remarked on my umbrella in a bag.
"I don't have an umbrella, because you need to get me one. You need to buy me a pink umbrella. I'm bigger now, so I can have an umbrella."
And for a second I thought, who is this person in my house and where did my baby go? And then I thought, My goodness I love this girl.
And both thoughts, together at once, were and are so true.
And they are, everyday.