I fully intended on blogging about my big birthday weekend tonight but just as I plugged in my memory card I heard a little voice on the baby monitor.
“Mama mamamama MAMAAA mama maaam.”
I went in to her dark nursery where she was waiting patiently for me, a big smile on her face, her hair all fluffy and light.
“Isabelle, do you want me to rockabye you?”
And so, despite her age and her size and it being way past her bedtime, I picked up her pajammied body and lifted her out of the crib. She pointed to the glider, and we sat down together. She laid on my lap, with Olivia and Leilani and her blankie, and we talked about the events of the day. She answered questions until she was too sleepy and then she asked me to tell her a story. So I did. And I tried so hard to drink in her smell and memorize the shape of her lips as she ran Olivia’s fringed hair through her fingers and tried to keep her eyes open. Her tiny toes peeked out from underneath the blanket and I tucked them back in. She reached for my hand, wrapping her fingers around my thumb.
I whispered to her, “Isabelle, are you happy?”
“Yeahhhh,” she said with a sleepy smile.
Her breath became slow and even, her body limp and still, and she slipped into sleep. And though Jazz makes fun of me for regularly rocking my almost two year old to sleep, it is my most treasured favorite time of the day. And sometimes I cry- for my tiny newborn who is getting too big to fit across my lap. For that little baby that couldn’t hold her head up but now calls me by name. For my 7 pound 4 ounce froggy infant who wears Nikes and requires sunglasses and is learning to swim. I cry for the time that I have with her and cry for the time when I won’t have moments like these anymore.
I cry because if Isabelle could ask me if I am happy, my answer would be “yes” every time.