3 AM
It's 3 AM.
C is awake, arms flailing silently. I am deeply asleep but somewhere underneath my subconscious hears her rapid breathing. She is patient, confident that Mama will come to her and give her the milk that only Mama can give. But I know, even in my sleep, that hunger can very quickly turn to panic and cries will ensue-- outbursts that may or may not awaken one of her sisters.
I force myself upright and reach my arms out to her. She curls up, crunching her abdominal muscles so that her head moves toward my chest, mouth open. Her strength is amazing when she's on the verge of that hunger-panic. Instinct tells her that her very life depends upon this connection with me. She latches and, as she satisfies her hunger in long, slow gulps, her little body slowly relaxes. As her belly fills her eyelids droop and finally she is in that deep, deep sleep-- the kind of sleep where the blood sort of leaves her face and she looks like a porcelain doll. She is perfectly peaceful and she doesn't even seem to know that I'm placing her gently back into her crib. I fall into bed.
What seems like minutes later, a scream pierces the air, coming from the next room. My eyelids fly open. It is L, awakening from a nightmare. She is moaning, and then intelligible words form: "I don't want to say goodbye to Mama... I don't want to say goodbye to Mama..." she is sobbing. I'm waiting to see if she's just talking in her sleep. Sometimes after a few moaned phrases she falls silent and is back to sleep on her own. But then she starts talking and I know she's fully awake. She's trying to console herself: "It's okay. She'll be back soon. Mama will be right back." She's no longer sobbing, but I can hear the worry in her voice. I get up and take in a dose of Tylenol because I know it's probably the pain of the 2-year molars that has awakened her and given her those nightmares.
She seems incredibly relieved to see me. She drinks the medicine, and, clutching her blanky, she whispers with wide eyes, "Mama please, I want to rock." I remember the days when she was a baby, not so very long ago, that I rocked her to sleep every night. Every now and again when she is sick or frightened she will request it. And how can I refuse?
I lift her and, while she is heavy, she is still my baby... her skin has not yet lost its velvety softness, her arms are chubby and buttery around my neck, and her hair is fuzzy and fine against my cheek. I rock her, and after a few minutes her body relaxes, as her sister's did, in the realization that Mama has not left. It is safe to sleep again. I place her heavy sleeping body gingerly back into her crib, and return to my own bed.
This time sleep does not overtake me so quickly. I think for a moment about my own mother, how comforting her presence was to me as a child. How frightening the thought of her not being there. She is still comforting-- she is with us every week, and while I am so grateful for all the help she gives and child care she provides, I mostly just enjoy and treasure her company. She lifts my spirits mid-week.
I think about the fact that my mother has lost her own mother, very recently. Although she is a grown adult and had the privilege of seeing her mother into old age, the fact remains that her "Mama" is now gone. In the darkness of 3 AM, where eternity seems closer than usual and all things are more sharp and more real, my heart hurts for my mother. I wonder, too, how much time I have left with her, and how much time my girls will have with me. None of these things are certain.
And so that night I made a vow to tell my mother, more than I already do, how much I love her. And not just my mother, but all my loved ones.
God has certainly blessed me richly with the people in my life.
C is awake, arms flailing silently. I am deeply asleep but somewhere underneath my subconscious hears her rapid breathing. She is patient, confident that Mama will come to her and give her the milk that only Mama can give. But I know, even in my sleep, that hunger can very quickly turn to panic and cries will ensue-- outbursts that may or may not awaken one of her sisters.
I force myself upright and reach my arms out to her. She curls up, crunching her abdominal muscles so that her head moves toward my chest, mouth open. Her strength is amazing when she's on the verge of that hunger-panic. Instinct tells her that her very life depends upon this connection with me. She latches and, as she satisfies her hunger in long, slow gulps, her little body slowly relaxes. As her belly fills her eyelids droop and finally she is in that deep, deep sleep-- the kind of sleep where the blood sort of leaves her face and she looks like a porcelain doll. She is perfectly peaceful and she doesn't even seem to know that I'm placing her gently back into her crib. I fall into bed.
What seems like minutes later, a scream pierces the air, coming from the next room. My eyelids fly open. It is L, awakening from a nightmare. She is moaning, and then intelligible words form: "I don't want to say goodbye to Mama... I don't want to say goodbye to Mama..." she is sobbing. I'm waiting to see if she's just talking in her sleep. Sometimes after a few moaned phrases she falls silent and is back to sleep on her own. But then she starts talking and I know she's fully awake. She's trying to console herself: "It's okay. She'll be back soon. Mama will be right back." She's no longer sobbing, but I can hear the worry in her voice. I get up and take in a dose of Tylenol because I know it's probably the pain of the 2-year molars that has awakened her and given her those nightmares.
She seems incredibly relieved to see me. She drinks the medicine, and, clutching her blanky, she whispers with wide eyes, "Mama please, I want to rock." I remember the days when she was a baby, not so very long ago, that I rocked her to sleep every night. Every now and again when she is sick or frightened she will request it. And how can I refuse?
I lift her and, while she is heavy, she is still my baby... her skin has not yet lost its velvety softness, her arms are chubby and buttery around my neck, and her hair is fuzzy and fine against my cheek. I rock her, and after a few minutes her body relaxes, as her sister's did, in the realization that Mama has not left. It is safe to sleep again. I place her heavy sleeping body gingerly back into her crib, and return to my own bed.
This time sleep does not overtake me so quickly. I think for a moment about my own mother, how comforting her presence was to me as a child. How frightening the thought of her not being there. She is still comforting-- she is with us every week, and while I am so grateful for all the help she gives and child care she provides, I mostly just enjoy and treasure her company. She lifts my spirits mid-week.
I think about the fact that my mother has lost her own mother, very recently. Although she is a grown adult and had the privilege of seeing her mother into old age, the fact remains that her "Mama" is now gone. In the darkness of 3 AM, where eternity seems closer than usual and all things are more sharp and more real, my heart hurts for my mother. I wonder, too, how much time I have left with her, and how much time my girls will have with me. None of these things are certain.
And so that night I made a vow to tell my mother, more than I already do, how much I love her. And not just my mother, but all my loved ones.
God has certainly blessed me richly with the people in my life.
oh my goodness, Abby, this is so beautiful and real and so beautifully written. Thank you for sharing. :)
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