A few nights ago, Hannah called out in her sleep. It was around midnight, and she woke Caroline in the process. Todd took Hannah and I took Caroline. But by the time I gave Caroline a sip of water and put her back down, Hannah still hadn't calmed down. So I took her in my arms and sat on the sofa and did the only thing that seems to work when she's in that state. I held her close to me, like a baby, and rocked her back and forth and whispered, "Mama's here, mama's here," over and over. I stroked her cheek and brushed errant curls off her forehead. I hugged her and told her everything was alright.
It only took a few minutes before she calmed and maybe a minute more until I felt her go slack and begin snoring gently. I watched her giraffe eyelashes flutter against her cheeks and counted the teeniest freckles on her nose. And then I felt my body begin to protest from the awkward position and it suddenly dawned on me: I will not be able to carry her much longer.
She isn't a baby anymore, and she certainly isn't a toddler. She's a girl. She's all leg and knees and elbows, and though I can certainly hold her on my lap and swing her around from time to time, it won't be all that long before picking her up and carrying her around just isn't a logistical option, save for an emergency and accompanying burst of adrenaline.
So I held her for quite a bit longer than was necessary. And I took in all of those sweet, special characteristics that make her my Hannah. Because for right now, I still can. For now, she is still my sweet baby. And futile as it may be, I want to hold on to that for as long as I can. And then some.
