I’ve just had the most delicious experience with Bella. Slightly perturbed that the home hairdresser I had booked to cut my hair today was a no show, and on my new regime of trying to consciously enjoy my time with my daughter, I climbed into our bed with her. Armed with a bottle of fresh milk, we snuggled down under the doona and played peek-a-boo till she finally gave up on it. When she gave me her undeniable cue that she was tired (she loves to grab whatever top she is wearing with both hands as if to swaddle herself), I brought her up into my arm for a cuddle.
Amazingly, even at only ten and a half months, she knew how to reward me and stared so directly into my eyes, I am sure we were talking to each other. At one point I even thought to myself, “Can you hear me?” as I matched her loving stare.
Something incredible happened though that I wanted to share. I understand that this may be an epiphany-come-lately that most of you out there have experienced already but I realised that my daughter loves me. It’s not just me that adores her. She actually loves me. What have I been so scared of all this time? Yes, I am her mother which means I am responsible for her and yes, my life has changed in a way that often requires selfless sacrifice (quite the shock to the system after years of selfishness). But if she loves me and I love her, won’t we be alright in the end?
Suddenly I didn’t give a damn about the hairdresser; my curls could go wild. Because here I have a little girl, who is part me, who for now just looked at me like I was her world. And I was all good, not a bad bone in my body. Nobody has ever looked at me like that before.
If I wasn’t so happy, I would dry reach at my own sop. Is this what it’s been like all along for other mothers? I envy the speed with which they’ve had this realisation but I don’t resent my tardiness.
I got there in the end and once again, my little girl was waiting for me at the finish line.