The Weight

Sweet Girl,
I put you to bed tonight.  Normally, Daddy is the one who gets that privilege, but tonight the honor was all mine. And tonight, you gave me a sweet gift: you fell asleep in my arms.  Now, we have worked hard to get you to learn to fall asleep on your own. Too hard, perhaps, as now we almost never have the pleasure of watching you slumber safely in our arms or feeling the weight of your sleeping frame on our chests.  The weight, oh, the weight.

As I stared down at your 10-month-old face, I couldn't help but think back to all the long, late nights of rocking a newborn you, willing sleep to win out.  Your tiny little body fit so perfectly in the crook of my arm. Now, when you stretch to your full length, the width of the chair cannot contain you. Yet you are still my baby girl. Your body still curls around mine instinctively as you nurse. And in those rare, sleepy moments, your head finds its way to the curve in my neck and finds its fit and nestles in. The glorious weight of your little body on mine is one I hope I never forget.

I am absolutely undone by you.

As I rock you and watch your sleeping breaths whisper in and out, in and out, I am undone by the weight of my responsibility. The weight of my hopes for you. The weight of my continuous awareness of my shortcomings.  The weight, sweet girl, of my love for you.  It's all quite crushing.

How in the world have I been entrusted with such a gift?  How can I possibly rise to the occasion to be the kind of mama that you need? How will I ever succeed in not royally screwing this all up?

What a weighty, blessed responsibility this is.

5.8.18