Tonight before bed I went into Miss P’s room like I always do. We have a monitor but the grainy image before bed isn’t enough.
I like to see what position she is in, make sure limbs aren’t tangled in the bed slats, that her feet are warm. I like to touch her foot, press a kiss from my fingertips to her forehead. I like to run my fingers through her hair as she sighs in her sleep.
“You secretly want to wake her up so you can snuggle her,” my husband accused.
I love it when she puts her skinny arms around my neck and presses her face into my shoulder. I love to feel her body snuggling into mine. She is so confident that she is safe and loved.
She is such a miracle, that I can’t get enough of her. Some days she drives me to tears in frustration, but if I ever ran away from home I’d have to take her with me. I would miss her too much to leave her behind.
She is my precious, lovely miracle.
And part of me wonders about the woman who have birth to me. Did she ever feel this way about me?