My head rolls over, heavily. I hear her happy chatter coming
from the nursery. [How long can I call it a nursery if she’s getting so big so
fast?] This is the 5th Saturday in a row that she has slept in,
woken up happy, and generally taken it easy on us. [I love this kid.]
I stumble to the bathroom, my bladder being squished by a
child I can only hope will be half as lovely as the first, and take 60 seconds
to myself. I walk into her room to find her sitting in the crib arranging her
stuffed animals and blankies in a lovely circle around herself. Her socks are
placed neatly side by side in the formation. [Is she OCD or just developing
some random life skill I take for granted every day?]
“Do you want to get up?” I ask her sweetly, holding out my
hands to her. Her eyes dart side to side as she considers. “No” she says
sweetly, going back to playing with her dolls. It’s a trap I know. My pregnant
back doesn’t want to bend down to pick her up. Her toddler self doesn’t want me
to walk away and leave her there. Her
cuteness wins me over and I bend down to lift her out of the crib, pausing so
that she can grab “Sacha” the doggie and Sacha’s blankie on the way up. Without
these, I know that her demeanor will instantly change and I will want only to
go back to bed immediately.
One quick diaper change and we’re snuggling onto the rocking
chair, as she laughs and asks me to tickle her again. For a kid that squirms to
get away from tickles so quickly, she sure does return easily requesting them “again”,
no question in her voice (“again?”) just a simple statement of what she knows I
will deliver (“again.”).
We play like this for what seems like 5 minutes, but I know
is closer to 45. I know the timer on her tummy will soon go off and I must make
some headway towards the kitchen. I’m a big supporter of the plan to feed her
before she goes crazy, rather than trying to reason with her in the throes of
hanger (hunger, anger, hanger). I put in my contacts, brush my teeth, and
invite her to go find Daddy. She runs (like a small drunk, torso twisting, arms flailing) into our bedroom,
and gleefully yells out “I found you Daddy!” the newest phrase in her growing
vocabulary.
We rouse him just enough to let him know that we’re headed
downstairs to make breakfast. He sleepily says he’s right behind us. [God, I
love this man. But I know better. He’ll be back asleep in 10 seconds, if he was
ever awake to begin with.]
We make our way down the stairs, as she announces “Horsey
Cow” that we will be watching Baby Einstein again this morning. [Shocking!] As
much as I wish I was annoyed by this daily request, I am ever more grateful for
the vocabulary she’s growing and her ability to tell me in (relatively) plain
English what she wants and needs. Life is ever-so-much-easier when I know how
to keep her even keeled.
I start the DVD, she dances to the intro music, beautifully
amazed at the intro credits, completely excited when I offer her a sippy cup of
milk.
It’s a good morning. An ordinary morning. But in so many
ways, this is a great morning. It took us many months to land here, but the
simple quiet and happy love of this child has changed our world forever. She is
joy, defined. She is innocence, explained. She is the future, dancing before
our very (sleepy) eyes.
I watch her, enraptured with the horses, cows, and pigs on
the screen, as if she hasn’t seen them 100 times. I cannot fathom that
something this beautiful came forth from two such ordinary, exhausted people as
ourselves. Looking at her in awe, I am reminded that while pregnant I confided in my mother that “I
can barely make rice, how am I supposed to make a human??” to which she easily
replied, “God’s making her, Rachel. You’re just the vessel.”
To which memory I can only reply, “Well done, God. Well
done.”
