Baby Girl

Last night, my 8 year old came over to the recliner where I was sitting and tried to climb up into my lap. She didn’t say anything, just gently adjusted her long limbs until she was curled somewhat awkwardly into my lap and rested her head against my chest. I had the good sense to recognize that this was no ordinary event, so I wisely kept silent and dropped my chin down to the top of her head. We existed like that, for long minutes, in a comfortable silence.

When was the last time I held her like this? Did I hold her at 7? At 6? It seems so long ago, I don’t know if I remember. Her younger brother and sister have largely occupied my lap for the last 5 years, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I cradled my oldest in my arms this way.

I have a vivid memory of holding her at a few months of age in a blue glider in the corner of her nursery. I loved that she fit so neatly on my chest and under my neck, like she had always been there. I remember rocking her for hours, sometimes drifting off to sleep myself. I had a bedtime CD of music that I played every night as I rocked her to sleep. It was filled with real music, not the generic lullaby music compiled by some random publishing house. I carefully selected musicians and songwriters and artists who sang ballads about love and heartache, who performed with pure and raw emotion. I wanted to infuse in her already things of weight and value. I remember that I chose songs just for their haunting melodies and their connection to a wisdom that I hoped for her to someday attain.

When I rocked my daughter, and sang along to Eva Cassidy and Norah Jones, I relished those moments of togetherness. I felt her heart beating against mine; I drew breaths in rhythm with hers. I felt so intensely connected to her – I could not imagine the day would ever come when I missed a thing about her. I could catalog her facial expressions, the nuances of her mood, and I felt in tune with my child in a way that I had never felt in tune before.

It seems like a million years have passed since then. The last time she climbed up on my lap, I had no idea it would be the last time. I’m sure I was cuddling and comforting my other babies at the time. They were born ridiculously close together and demanded more and more of me every passing day. In fact, it was a comfort and a help when my oldest became old enough to manage her daily care on her own. She potty trained quickly, took to eating solid food like a champ. As soon as she could buckle her own car seat, I barely rejoiced before I was already asking her to help buckle the other kids in.

I didn’t notice that she stopped crawling up on my lap. Probably it was already full. She never asked. She never tried. I didn’t notice.

Why did she need that today? What happened at school/on the bus/on the playground/at daycare that made her need me this way? I am filled with anxiety. I want to ask her a million questions. I want to root out the cause of her need; fix it, make it better. Sometimes my intuition is smarter than my brain, and sometimes I actually manage to listen to it, so I wisely said nothing.

After a few minutes she sat up, and took a deep breath and smiled. I tried to very casually ask “how was your day?” all the while trying really hard not to sound like I was feeling inside. She said, “Good. Can I have a snack?” When I nodded, she hopped down and wandered into the kitchen. I followed her apprehensively. Why was I suddenly so uncertain? Why did I feel like I was navigating unknown territory in perilous waters? I gave her an apple and she took it upstairs to her room and shut the door.

I spent the next hour chopping vegetables for dinner with careful precision. Analyzing that moment, trying to extract some meaning. Should I go upstairs and press for more information? Surely something happened today for her to need some extra comforting. On the other hand, she’s usually very forthcoming. If she has something to say, she will say it, so maybe I should just let her be and decide on her own when she wants to tell me. I am intensely sensitive about my privacy and I hate when others intrude on that with probing questions when I just want to be left alone to think things through. Is that how she feels? Should I leave her alone? If I leave her alone, will she feel neglected? I don’t want her to think I don’t care. Is there girl drama? Believe it or not, at second grade there is already girl drama. Was someone mean to her? Is there a birthday party she didn’t get invited to? Did she fail her spelling test? Did she get in trouble with her teacher? Was there a problem on the bus?  

Have I mentioned that I am tiny bit obsessive about some things? This might be a good time to mention that fact. I have a terrible habit of over-analyzing situations. As a creative thinker, this is very dangerous indeed, because I can create entire fictional universes over one random comment or action. I have more than once orchestrated a problem where none existed. I’m trying to learn from that, so part of me wants to wait her out. The other part of me really, really, really wants to go upstairs and drag it out of her.

You’re dying to know, though, right? Well. The story goes down like so: I didn’t go upstairs. I didn’t press. I did spend most of the evening fabricating multiple tragic circumstances and formulating my responses to them. Later that evening she was brushing her hair before bed and I finally said, “Everything okay with you today?” She smiled and leaned on my hip with her arm around my back and said, “Yeah. I just missed you.”

Wow. I miss you too, baby girl.