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I watch my little baby as she sleeps sweetly, restfully, on my lap. I cannot take my eyes off her innocent face. Her head is cradled tenderly in my left palm. Her knees pop over as I sit cross-legged; her feet are stretched out on the bed.
At 2½ years, she is too big for my lap. I remember a time when she fit my lap so snugly, unaware of anything else in the world other than the fact that the warmth and comfort of this lap means HOME.
Back then she needed mother’s milk to fall asleep. Today a song sung by her mother, any song as long as it is rendered in a soft, soothing and melodious manner or even one of my own compositions (but more of that in another post), can calm her down.
I don’t know how much longer I can continue this ritual, so dear to both of us. My growing belly, swelling with life that will soon thrill me, tells me not much longer. Soon I shall have to give up this ritual, this special time that has been hers and mine alone.
I believe them now – those people who say that time flies when you’re having fun. These 2½ years have gone by so fast. Already I find myself telling her, “You’re a big girl now.” Soon it will be time for my baby to go to school. This little angel that has been mine to love and cherish, I shall soon have to watch as she gets ready to face the world. A world waiting to judge her hastily, harshly even.
With me, she is safe. Within the four walls of her home, she is protected, adored, loved. But I cannot protect her always. She must go out, make her own friends and opinions. She must face her own struggles, fight her own battles.
But not yet. Not yet.
Meanwhile, I have my memories of her babyhood. They lie captive in my mind. I hasten to write them down.
They will bring me joy, evoke tender memories in the years to come. They will tell her someday how much her mother loves her and how honoured and privileged she feels to be a mother.
And so, Rhea, my darling, this blog is for you so that you never forget that though you have outgrown my lap, you will never outgrow my heart.