In the dark of night before I go to bed, I go in to the girls' room. I lean over her, my stubborn, strong willed child and untangle her limbs from the sheet and scoop her up quickly, but gently, in an effort to keep her asleep.
I struggle to carry her. The weight of her presses on my arms but also on the top of my shoulder as she lays her head there, for her head is heavy. Her feet reach to my knees.
I distinctly remember reaching this moment with her sister. The moment when I realized that her feet reached my knees while I carry her. I'm glad I remember that and I make a mental note to write this down on the blog so that I will remember for both.
I carry her in to the bathroom for the night-time tee-tee. This is the last vestige of babyhood, of legitimately needed physical assistance in our house. Everything else they can do themselves. Shoes, coats, dressing, pouring water and milk, eating, preparing snacks, waking up, brushing teeth, washing hands can all be done independently and usually are. Every other single physical "care of self" action can be done independently. There are so few opportunities where I am needed to lean over them, to wrap my arms around them as my hands guide theirs in washing their hands, zipping their coat, snapping their pants.
"When did this happen," I wonder.
But this night-time potty trip. We are still needed for that.
1 week ago