Tonight my sweet little girl woke suddenly from a bit of a night terror. She had been asleep a few hours, cuddled warmly under her blankets when she started to cry frantically, tossing and turning to escape the monsters that apparently exist between the bumper pads and her empty bottle that she flung aside when she realized that nothing more would respond to her frantic sucks and swallows. This was not her first night terror.
We used to joke that she has such a short life, what does she have to have nightmares about? Then we recall the painful surgeries, the hospital stays, the trauma that she has already suffered and our smiles fade.
As horrible as it sounds, I secretly love when she cries out because I've convinced myself that she is crying out for me- her Mama- even though she won't call me that just yet. When I hear her budding soprano voice rise in distress, I don't doubt for a minute what she is saying. I know that "MAMA" is what she really means when her tearful cries arise from the pink nursery down the hall.
I immediately run to comfort her. Soothingly stroking her forehead and gently placing kisses all over her sweet face, I scoop her chubby eighteen pounds of perfection up into my eager arms.
Because of low muscle tone, her overall stance is a little floppy-especially in the semi-conscious state that I find her after a night terror. I love this. It means that every roll, every curve, every bit of baby deliciousness fits perfectly against me- we are molded together and we take the opportunity to inseparably cling to the moment. This moment belongs only to the comforter and the one seeking the assurance of Mommy's comfort.
One tiny little arm comes up and wraps itself around my neck, for the first time that day not to pull my hair out by the very roots, but just to hold on. Almond shaped blue eyes blink against the light as the realization is had that everything is OK. Mama is here. A long drawn out sigh causes her flannel wrapped body to rise and fall gently against me. She snuggles up even closer, lays her blond head down slowly onto my shoulder, and her arms drops limply to her side as sleep reclaims her once again.
These are the moments that I treasure the most. Not just because when she is fully awake and conscious she fights and scratches to be free so that she can play, wiggle, semi-crawl, and smile her way into more trouble than she can handle. No, I love these moments because for an instant we are the only two people in the world that exist.
Mother and daughter- loving, holding, kissing, setting those bumper pad monsters free so they won't bother little Chubbs anymmore. There are no health problems in this magical moment of ours-no worries-no developmental delays-no anxious checking for red spots on the skin-no hurtful thoughts or careless words.
Just me and my perfect daughter.
The way it should be.