She grabs my hand in her little chubby one and grips hard. We sit and rock while I give her a “baba.” I worry she is too old for this habit at 15 months and then I remember all the other things I thought she would never outgrow, and I choose to cherish the snuggles.
She releases her grasp and I move my hand away. She makes a small noise of protest, reaches for me, moves my hand to her face. She has loved having her head and face stroked since she was tiny. Someday these will be her tiny days to me and I will remember her newborn days even more faintly than I do now.
I stroke her sweet little head, her smooth cheek. She drinks in milk and comfort. I lay my head on hers.
Someday she won’t need me like this, and as exhausted as I am, that thought breaks my heart. And I can’t believe I’m saying things so cliché that I once rolled my eyes at, but they’re true.
Because of her.