So swiftly does a child grow . . .

I cherish the soft curl of your baby hand gripping my fingers as you fall asleep. How long will you hold my hand tonight? Five minutes? Ten?

As I sit here with you I marvel and ache at how quickly your babyhood is slipping away. No longer do you suckle and snuggle ‘til you fall away from my breast in deep sleep. I miss that. No, though you still nurse it’s only some short, sweet minutes until your drowsy voice pleads “Bed? Hand?” So I lay you down and sit with your tiny fingers clasping mine-- waiting for your little wiggles to cease, your breathes to deepen and sleep to overcome you. (I’m so thankful you still want me near to hold your hand. I’m not yet ready to leave you alone to find sleep!) Finally your hand unfolds. I slip my fingers from your loosened grip, slide my arm through your crib slats, pause . . . watch . . . you don’t move so I silently tip toe out of your room.

I grieve this and each subtle yet sure step towards independence. Though I am delighted and amazed at each new skill you master and claim as your own, my heart wells up with nostalgia and I long to slow you down. I didn’t expect such ambivalence towards you growing up!

This art of letting you go is so difficult to learn, so truly bittersweet. Yet this is the task of motherhood: to give not so you will return but so you can walk away.

I will hold your hand until you’re filled up and strong enough to no longer need me to fall asleep. Perhaps someday you will sit on a floor with your arm crooked through crib slates, cradling the petal soft fingers of your own baby girl . . . and this eternal dance of mother and child will continue its sad, sweet spiral of nurturing towards maturity.

Written for Hannah, August 25, 2008