I’m sitting in a restaurant, staring at my sleeping child as I type this.
I’m absorbing how small she is, despite how much she has grown and developed lately. I feel like I’m greeted by a new child every morning.
She’s been having nightmares lately. She wakes up howling and talking about wolves and snakes catching her. Then her daddy fetches her and hugs her and gives up most of the bed so she can crawl into my arms to go back to sleep. And as I hold her, I’m terribly aware that in a matter of days I will be spending 3 nights away from her. The first time I’ve ever slept away from her. And I worry about those nightmares. I worry about the sudden growing up and having enough arms to hold 3 people. About forgetting she’s just little. I worry about making her grow up too soon.
Honestly, it has taken me 10 days to get back to writing this. I stopped, because she woke up, but also because it made me sad. In that time I’ve heard her be called a big girl a few times too often. I’ve been rushed to pop out her brother already, while I just want to cuddle her a little longer and not share our time.
She is no keener to sleep alone now than she was 10 days ago, but we’re taking in the cuddles and being grateful for them as we wait for her brother to arrive. And we remember she’s only tiny, really.