The house is quieter than normal. The oldest two are away at Grandmama and Papa’s house. It’s only me and my littlest today, my sweet, smiley girl, my mama’s girl, third-times-a-charm.
She plays quietly and I revel in the silence of it all. She’s never far away and if I go to another room, I know my little shadow will be close behind me, looking for new opportunities and cabinets to open.
As the morning wears on, she rubs her eyes. More and more frequently, she walks over to me to lay her head down on my knee, my shoulder. She’s tired, but I don’t want this magical morning with her to end. They’re all too rare in the Hester household.
Finally, I can’t deny her a nap any longer. Our days are marked by the rhythm of meals and naps. Her nap means we’re another step closer to the end of another summer day, another day closer to school again, another day older, perhaps another day wiser.
I take her to her room and without thinking, I begin our normal routine. I pull her blanket out of her bed, the one I made her before she was born. I put her soft little doll in exactly the right spot so she can snuggle it when I lay her down. We turn on her music and the soft notes of a lullaby fill the air. We sit in the rocking chair and I cover her up as we begin to rock. Her soft little body melts into mine and she feels heavier than normal. She trusts me so implicitly, so openly. She is my daughter. I am her mama, but for this moment, we are one again. I normally rock her for one song before I put her in the crib, but today, because time is fleeting, I rock her for three, loving her more with every passing minute.
This is little Miss M the day we brought her home from the hospital (with the aforementioned blanket). In the blink of an eye, she became the girl below.
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