I’m looking at my beautiful child. She’s playing with her toys, over by the big window. Morning sunlight is streaming through and turning her hair into a multi-colored wheat field. It lays in wide curls against her waist. She’s got some sort of game involving a bus, a cookie monster doll, floor puzzle pieces, and a shovel going. “Come back Lion!” she cries.
She’s completely caught up in her world. She still hasn’t put on any clothes for the day. She’s sitting on the floor wearing her ‘roos and that glorious hair. Grinning. Telling a story. I’m sure there’s some sort of psycho-babble that covers what she’s doing. Mostly though, I don’t give a fuck what “experts” call it. She’s doing what she does best; what she enjoys doing. She’s playing.
If someone had told me five years ago that I would be weeping with the enormity of feeling (love simply doesn’t cover it) for my child — I’d have laughed in their face.
“It’s coming! Meow! Kitty’s in my house…Kitty what’re ya doing in my house?”
My best friend often tells me that we need to get the film/accoutrements for the digital camera and get all this cuteness on film. I’m really in no hurry. I have her in my head all the time.
Warm wriggly child in the bed at four AM because she’s woken up and needed “snuggies”.
Small, pudgy hands on either side of my face as she tells me that she loves me.
Cries of “Tickle me! wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!” as she giggles and runs away.
Face covered in ketchup from having her favorite san-mich and fries.
“Can I sleep in the Mama-bed?”
“Mama I’m a little hungry now. Can we have brefist?”
“I got an owie. I need a bandaid.” (pointing to a non-existent owie)
“I lub you so much in the whole world”
There’s more…but it’s a location thing. You’d have to be here.