As I watch her sleep I am overcome with emotions. Not in that sweet sentimental way that brings a single tear to your eye or causes a small sigh to quietly escape your lips. But in a way that gets stuck in your throat and turns your stomach over and over. Like a wave beating relentlessly on the rocks the emotions break against me. Joy. I feel joy. A deep and abiding joy that the miracle which now breathes steadily in and out is a part of my life. Joy that this small being somehow belongs to me and I to her. Joy as I remember all of the special moments we have shared since the day she came into this world. Sadness. I feel sadness. Sadness that she would not always be this small. That her tiny body would one day not fit on my lap. Sadness that the time would come when I would not be her favorite playmate. Sadness that she would leave me one day. Hope. I feel hope for all that she can become. Hope for a world that is a better place simply because she is in it. Hope that I can be the wonderful person she seems to think I am. Regret. I feel regret. Today and on too many days I have bossed when I should have guided, I have told when I should have showed, I have ignored when I should have paid attention and I have sat out when I should have jumped in.
I wonder if I will ever be the mother I want to be. The mother she deserves. If I will grow less impatient, less lazy, less selfish. Will I ever be able to teach her what I so desperately want her to know. That she is an amazing gift. That kindness is always the right choice. That lollipops are not a breakfast food. That it’s ok for a girl to get dirty, be strong and like math. That holding the pen by its tip helps you write more clearly. That God is good and Jesus loves her. That you need to pay close attention when using scissors. I feel like she deserves better, better than my brokenness, my insecurity and my selfishness. Everything about her is amazing. Her smile overcomes the strongest resistance. Her laugh is an almost palpable source of energy. Her ideas and the way she expresses them are as intelligent as they are unique. Her dance moves are a sight to behold. Her negotiating skills are far too advanced for my own good.
I think of the pile of clothes waiting to be folded, the bathrooms begging to be cleaned and the episode of Gilmore Girls I have saved on the DVR. They tempt me to sneak away before my angel awakes. If I don’t get the chores done now she will, no doubt, want to help. Folding laundry with my daughter is something of a challenge. She likes me to dump it all on top of her and laments the loss of each piece of covering as I take them away to fold. Occasionally she likes to fold too. This always involves a two to three minute lesson on folding which results in her squeal of triumph as she presents me with what I can only describe as balls of clothes which she proclaims to be folded. Not very quick, but so much more fun than the conventional way. She loves to clean too and so my three bathrooms take an hour to get done as my helper requires frequent instruction and encouragement, but how can she make such a menial task seem meaningful and bright? And I have seen that Gilmore Girls three times now.
She inhales swiftly and snuggles deeper into her princess pillow. Unable to resist I reach down and smooth a damp curl off of her cheek. Her eyes open and for a moment she looks unseeing at my face. I know the moment she moves from dreams to reality because her breathtaking smile appears and she squirms into my arms mumbling something about blanky. I wrap her blanky around us and stroke her back.
“Hello sunshine.” I whisper my usual post nap greeting. I hope she will one day understand the depth and intensity of the light she has brought into my world.
“Hello sunshine.” She responds. I can’t imagine I shine for her the way she does for me, but what if I do?
“Are you ready to wake up?” I ask.
“Mmmm.” She assures me as she nuzzles into my shoulder and wraps her arms around my neck.
I breath in the sweet smell that is hers alone and wait for her little body to decide whether it is really ready to relinquish her dream world. Leaning against the wall I try to ignore my legs warning that too long in this position will have negative results. As I tickle her neck with my fingers I try to stay in the moment, to feel the ripple of her soft laughter. The mundane seems determined to challenge the profound. If I don’t put the chicken in the oven soon dinner will be really late. The rhythm of her heart against mine. I still have work to do on my resume. She has fallen back asleep and is drooling ever so slightly on my t-shirt. The phone rings. It startles us both and she again wakes up and favors me with a smile fit for a returning hero. She kisses my cheek and shifts position to kneel in front of me and places her nose against mine.
“You’re my Mommy.” She tells me. In that word she packs a thousand meanings. All of them more and better and stronger than I think I am or maybe can be. She is telling me I am her best friend and her favorite teacher. She is saying I am fun, I am tough and I am needed. She is marking me as her territory and staking her claim in my heart and my life.
“I know baby.” I answer with a kiss. My baby is my constant. The forever changing unchangeable piece of my heart. She is a small piece of everything that is good in the world. A ray of sunshine. She is my greatest challenge and my favorite dream.
“Let’s play.” She commands, finally shaking the last vestiges of sleep from her.
Sometimes I feel too tired, too preoccupied or too busy to comply with this simple request. Today more than most I sense its importance and feel the honor it bestows on me. When I allow them to her games and fantasies fascinate me. When I let her she can draw me away from whatever pressing problem is crowding my mind into a world filled with wonder and excitement. When I indulge myself in the unproductive nothingness of her child’s play I gain something I did not know I needed. It doesn’t get the dishes done, pay the bills or help me figure out how to work my way back into my career, but it does do something, give me something more profound and too often less acknowledged than any of that.
And so I play. I try to let her win at Go Fish. I teach her to lose at Candyland. I follow instructions on how to properly behave as a mermaid sister on a quest for buried treasure. I push her on the swing and chase her around the yard. At the end of such a day I feel so much better about me, about her, about us than on those too frequent days I pay more attention to my to do list than her still small voice asking her best friend for a little consideration, a little imagination and a lot of fun. It is true, and I am so thankful, on my good days, that a mother’s work is never done.
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