Months before she was in my arms, she was trying to get there, scooting and twirling her way up in utero. It wasn’t until that first day, gazing into her enchanting dark reservoirs of blue, oozing over all 10 pounds 3 ounces of her, that I realized what she was doing. As I brought her close, she would nuzzle and scoot and scrunch her way up to that spot between my chest and shoulder.
And then sweet Selah, rest.
When that little boy was baby, he found contentment being near, close by, and while he loved falling asleep to the rhythm of my beating heart on my chest, he’d fall asleep just about anywhere, really. He’s pretty chill like that.
But this girl baby, this wonder of a whirlwind of a child, she needs me, as in the most desperate state of needing, nothing else will do. Not just near, but with me wholly and completely. I’m quite certain she wakes up half way through the night, just so she can spend the remainder nuzzled into my armpit, because there is no personal space between us. As far as she is concerned, I am her personal space.
Often, this is exhausting. I think, can’t you just play over there for a while, kid.
But that’s the thing about one’s happy place. There is no counterfeit replacement. Gas station “gourmet” will never take the place of a well brewed French press. None of these 10,000 lakes will never compare to the roaring spray of the salty ocean. Wal-Mart will never be Anthropologie, for obvious reasons. And as hard as those designers might try, the swing will never be a mother’s arms.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, all those clichés about cherishing and moments and the speed at which they grow, give me a break already… we get it. It’s true.
But I suppose, it’s pretty special, it is kind of a big deal, to be able to be just what someone needs and for that to be enough for them. Isn’t that the whole point of this parenting deal? That we are capable, equipped, and able to be what these little noisy creatures need, which is mostly love.
My arms are tired. Tired and full, but I get to be her happy place.