At the end of the day
I lifted my baby into my lap last night. She was warm and sweet, smelling of the days little mysteries and many adventures. She settled in, snuggled into mismatched pyjamas, one freckled over with puppy dogs and one with ponies. Her teeth brushed and flossed, tired out from day-long playing, laughing, growing.
We spent full hours in the sunshine together, bicycling round our neighborhood, eating watermelon while we watered our container garden and hung laundry in the sun. She chased shadows around and giggled at a sneaky lizard stealing the warmest place in the sun for itself.
Her laugh tinkled through the apartment as she ran back and forth, inside, outside: free-reign over the tiny spot we call a yard, freedom to run across a square of grass without holding someones hand.
I never foresaw this as being my life and yet it fits so perfectly, just as she does onto my lap. Her legs now dangle far too long and her chin tucks only on my shoulder, too big to kiss and cuddle her plumsized cheeks at once, her hair clings to the back of her neck now, longer and curlier than I foresaw in any dream. She is beautiful and sweet, gentle with her friends and dogs. And each moment mothering her is perfect.
Winding down, she croons at first a letter-song: g, b,q,s. A,a,a, two-three-four-five-eyes-ears-teeth-Oreo. Dog.
And then she sleeps, blissfully and deeply settled into my arms in a way that only my daughter can. This is one of those sweet sweet moments I will miss when her figure stands a tall as her pappas and her voice loses it's honesuckle sweetness, but for now, I hold her; I am mother-comfort, and I am grateful for the job.
- mamma pie