Quietly, I crawl out of my corner of the couch, pull the coffee table aside, and assess the logistics of what I need to do. This time she dragged her big fluffy blanket and giant blue bunny down here with her, so I put him in front of her, tuck the blanket around her, and scoop all three of them up into my arms.
My bare feet feel out for trip hazards she and her brother likely left in my path as I navigate the dim basement from couch to stairs. Holding her tighter, I carefully climb 17 steps with over 50 pounds of little girl, favorite toy, and soft blanket. The weight doesn’t bother me—only the worry of banging her head or dangly colt-like legs on a doorjamb does.
I won’t always get to do this. I won’t always be the person she can comfortably doze off beside, knowing I will make sure she lands where she’s supposed to at the end of the night. I won’t always be the one she wants to watch movies with. I won’t always be the one whose arms she craves. I won’t always be the one she defaults to when she needs something, has news to share, tears to shed, laughter to give. These are parts of motherhood that will fade away as she grows. And she is growing so fast.
As I take the step from plush stairway to the cool hardwood flooring of the main hall, I reflexively lean over to shadow her face from the bright overhead lighting. Sounds of my husband typing away with ESPN playing behind him crackle out of his office, so I whisper shhh over her ears to keep them from jarring her awake, and turn the corner to take our next flight. I notice my son sitting on the chair behind my husband, his interest in what’s on the screen stronger than what’s going on with me outside the door—or maybe he’s deliberately ignoring me so I don’t encourage him to get ready for bed yet.
Fifteen more steps up with this load in my arms are nothing to me. I know I can do this. I don’t need to ask for help or doubt we can make it all the way up without incident. I have done far more difficult things since becoming a mom, and know all too well that the truly hard stuff has yet to come.
I know I will not drop her for I am holding on with all I have.
We make it into her room, which has not—despite her earlier insistence—been tidied up. I shimmy around ponies and art and dolls and more art until I reach the edge of her unmade bed. With a knee, I manage to slide the blankets aside enough to lay her down in her favorite spot. A little maneuvering of her legs, and I untangle the sheets to tuck her in. Bunny to her right, blanket to her left, bedding up to just below her chin. Looking down at her, I feel like I lost my favorite blanket again. The shadow of warmth is still there, but the weight I need to feel settled in is gone.
The original version of this post was published on ScaryMommy.
Kim Bongiorno is an author, full time freelance writer, and the blogger behind Let Me Start By Saying. You can find her on Facebook and Twitter, hire her to write for you or speak at your event, or buy her cotton candy because that stuff is delicious.