consuming

She's quiet, sleeping. Her mouth gapes open and her arms are draped over her head. The whooshing sound of her breath is rhythmic and regular. I can hear it. For a full minute, all I do is listen to her. You would think I was listening to a violin concerto, the way I'm mesmorized by her.

I stand above her. I resist compulsions to touch her, to kiss her. It would mean this moment would end, and I'm not ready.

She sighs and rolls over to her side. My breath catches, and for a second or two, I do not make a sound, move a finger, fearing even the unnoticeable rise of my chest filling with air will lure her to consciousness.

Her hand reaches for her sucky blanky, to find its security, even in her sleep, and its texture is instantly wrapped up inside her fingers. It's become reflex, her need for her sucky blanky. With the few reflexes our babies are born with, it is our world that creates new ones, and extinguishes the old. Her hands are still tiny, her body is little. The outline of her shape rises like a moutain chain under her princess blanket, and I am struck by how much I love her. She's four, and yet I want to envelop her into my arms, a swoosh of consuption, and hold her close like when she was a baby.

I kneel down and look at her. Her dark eyelashes. The tiny visible pulse in her neck. Right now I realize the weight of losing her, and I stare at her. She is a miracle. She is MY miracle. Even now, as I watch sitting silently next to her, she is growing, changing. Right now, she is bigger than she was a minute ago. She is moving in a black tunnel, in a cavernous force like the Bernoulli effect: as time is marching onward, she is moving away from me, faster and faster, seeking independence and abilities her own, separate from me. And, the humor in all of it is that I am encouraging it. I am fostering it.

With every victory, I cheer her, I clap. Can she see that there are times when this is false? When my heart is breaking because her victory means she needs me a little less?

*********************

He is predictable. It is 3:52pm and, though I am sitting and reading a book on the couch, I have detached from the novel. I am on autopilot, listening. For him.

A noise.

No, it's just a dog barking in the distance. Wait... there he is. His voice is scratchy at first, growing clearer by the second.

MOMMY! DONE!

It is functional, what he says. His calling for me has less to do with love than it does function. He wants out of his crib, a wooden cage that prevents him from exploring, or digging, or empyting cabinets. He wants out.

I open the door a crack, peeking in, trying to provoke a smile out of him. His smiles are like prozac. They bring a rush of endorphins that make me feel like I want to burst. He cries and says, "Nooooo." My heart sinks a bit, but I try again. I know him. I know there is a reason.

"Where's your blanky, Mak? What happened to it?" In the darkness, I see he hasn't moved from his spot standing in his crib, and as I turn on his light and open his shade, I see he's pointing.

There it is. It's on the floor. I stoop to pick it up, and he is rushed with smiles and coos. This blanket of his, it's special. It's a rung on a ladder that leads to the tunnel. The one that directs toward independence.

I pick him up and rub his back. He is tiny. He lays his head on my shoulder, heavy and unmoving, and he is still. He is limp, and I feel the rise and fall of his breathing against my body. I feel his shoulder blades, small on his back, and rub my lips over his fuzzy head. He smells so good, but it doesn't smell like clean. It's his very own scent, better than any other, and I wonder if someday he'll have a wife who'll love this smell, too? I'm not ready to share him, yet.

I sit down at the computer to check my email, and while I'm typing, he is playing, he is a boy. Straddling me on my lap, he is leaning in, touching my nose with his nose. He is giggling. It is a game. His eyes are so happy. I stop, see him, look at his smile, and he becomes shy. Throwing himself against my chest, he is waiting for me, hiding, beckoning me. "Will she do it?" I know it, so I squeeze my fingers around his sides and he wriggles with delight and laughter.

My boy.

*********************

Do they know?

Do they know that when we kiss them, when we hold them, when we sniff their little heads or trace our fingers around their fingers that it is not for them?

It is selfish; it is for us. It is for me. It is because my love for them is like a consuming fire, and unless I unleash some of it, release it to them, it will consume me. It is because there was a moment when she was all mine, when he was a part of me. They were in my body, and I didn't have to share them with anyone. Now, they are growing and changing, and as I sniff, or trace, or kiss, or hug, or tickle, it is for me: because it is a wonder that they are becoming all that they are outside of me, apart from me, and I am filled with awe.

They are marvelous little creatures. I am so selfish, I want to freeze time. I want them to stay little, for their hands to fit inside of mine for forever, for their voices to call me indefinitely with the trust that I can fix anything.

This is impossible, but today, this is what my heart is thinking.