Today she slept, well, half-slept and half-drank, in my lap. I stroked her little head. The softness of her hair lulling me to a state of inner peace I have not felt in a while. Someone ought to bottle up baby and market it; they’d make a killing. She heals. She heals my soul, soothes me, and restores me. Perhaps that’s a tall order for such a little one, but she doesn’t even have to lift an eyelash to do it. Pretty darn effective if you ask me. I want to drink her all in, breathe in deeply and store it up for the rainy, dark and cold nights. But to rub her little head while she sleeps, and feel how fragile it is, how fleeting, is also scary. The soft spot sticks out and makes me worry that as small as it is, it might have a giant target on it. Because sometimes life seems cruel like that.
Maybe that is what scares me about Kaiya, is that I might need her too badly, too deeply, and she’ll be taken from me. But simply being, simply sitting with her and stroking her head is all I have to do. It doesn’t have to be perfect, or maybe even make sense; it just has to be, I have to be, simply be for her. Be here for her.
I avoid things at times, scared to let in, scared to be too close, scared to hold too tightly to something that might be ripped from my little hands. What I would tell someone who is holding something too tightly isn’t to just let go, but to hold more lightly. If anything so your hand doesn’t cramp and so you can continue holding. That is what I need to do with my daughter—not hover over her every time she’s running about for Heavens she will fall a thousand more times and bust her head again and again, but let her go freely. And the moments when she is still, to drink them in, to rest in them, to stroke her little head and just be. Just be.