One night late in my pregnancy with her, she kicked so deliberately that I could trace the outline of her foot, heel to toes, in my palm. I remember a faint trace of sadness as I prepared for her birth, knowing that I would soon have to share her with the rest of the world. And when I held her, I knew both overwhelming love and fear at the same moment. A mother's yin and yang.
When she was a toddler, I was rocking her in the dark one night, singing every soft crooning song I could think of. At just the moment I was certain she was asleep, she turned, touched her fingers to my lips, shook her head and whispered, "Shh... Mama don't sing." She loves this story.
She was such a very verbal child. She was the first and a girl, after all. Her first sentence took place at the Hallmark store at the mall where we lived in Charlotte. She had spied treasure- a whole rack of stuffed animals. She pointed to the floor, looked at me, and commanded, "Mama, sit down. Play toys." What else could I do, but unload all my bags, sit and play toys?
On the night before her first birthday, I watched her sleep, hair caught in her fingers mid-twirl. I wondered what her life would be like, what she would be like, what siblings she might someday have. I wondered if she would love me later like she did then. I hoped. Again, I feared. I prayed. That's what we mothers do.
And now she's in this place. While there's still so much child left, there are angles I catch where I see glimpses of what she'll become, what she is becoming.
I couldn't love her more.
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