My girl

My daughter and I just laid stretched out on the couch together, she tucked into the crease between me and the taupe back cushions. She held her bottle of diluted white grape juice and drank slowly, kicking one foot rhythmically into the air. Once she reached out her right hand like she used to do when she was nursing and felt around in the air, against my round belly. I reached down to hold her hand for a minute, the bottle held between her lips but not supported. Then she took her hand away and kept drinking.

Someday she may be as long as I am. Even now she matches up with a good stretch of my body, so different than when I first met her and she was a tiny, three-and-a-half pound, wiry string bean of a girl. I was so scared the first time I changed her diaper in the NICU, reaching into the isolette and following my husband's instructions since he'd changed one before I did. I'd changed so many diapers before that one and I knew in my mind that she wouldn't break but it was hard to believe, holding her little legs in one hand. I can't remember what day we got to hold her but when we did, and for many weeks more, she fit right into the center of my chest. She rested her hands against my skin on either side of her head and rested her cheek against my heart. My daughter, the first of my children I got to hold. This mesmerizing stranger I met way before we expected.

When we got her out, five weeks after she and her brother were born, we moved into a classic San Francisco studio apartment across the street from the hospital. Crown moldings, bay windows looking out onto Cherry Street--the one street without 2-hour parking signs anywhere nearby. In order to take her "home" she had to be strapped into her car seat for an hour to show that she could keep breathing. She hardly took up any space in the seat at all and went right to sleep, passing with flying colors. We had a borrowed Moses basket as well as a Pack-N-Play, but she mostly slept on my chest before I'd move her to the space next to me in the middle of the bed, surrounded by pillows. I was afraid to fall asleep with her on my chest--afraid she'd fall off, afraid I'd crush her. But I couldn't stop holding her, feeling her breathe against me, settling into actually having a child who stayed with me rather than two I left behind many times a day and night.

For months she'd fall asleep like that, on my chest. We called them Princess Naps. I miss them. She's still a baby of course but she's just so long, so strong. Such a big girl and such a little baby all at the same time. I can't believe I get to lay there with her, feeling her hot pj'd body pressed up against mine. She's sick which is why she's drinking juice and why she's up past her bedtime. My baby. My big girl.

She turned away from me for the first time today. Our babysitter arrived and I handed her over, my daughter going happily into the arms of this new woman in our lives. I left them to settle in as I walked away to do something else. When I passed by they were both looking at me and I leaned in to kiss her and she turned her head into this woman's shoulder. Happily, teasingly, pretend-shyness. Usually she does that to other people, leaning into my shoulder. I admit, my heart felt squeezed.

I got myself together and headed out into the world--laptop bag packed. To sit in a coffee shop and work. To walk down the street alone. To run errands without two babies. I feel like my old self noticing things anew. At the same time I feel forever changed, pulled towards these two little people who aren't with me. I miss them.

It's a strange luxury to bring someone in to watch my children while I. . . figure out other things to do. I mean, I have a lot of things to do. And the point of having a sitter is for my kids to get used to someone other than me and my husband taking care of them--to get them prepared for having two new sisters in the house. I already like this woman. She is calm and confident. She understands babies. I like the way she talks to them and the way she talks to me. I'm glad that my daughter wants to go into her arms and that my son is doing better and better with her when I'm gone. I didn't have kids to be loved the most and I know it's not a competition. It doesn't feel competitive--it just feels like. . .the first of many, many separations as we help these two young people step out into the world.

I folded each of them into my arms when I got home, squeezing them and breathing them in. I heard stories about how much he ate and how he drank from his cup and how long they walked. I sat on the floor in their bedroom with my husband, watching the two of them wind down as we do each night. We laughed watching her try to crawl over my outstretched legs to get to the dog. It was like watching someone try to navigate across a mountain range and she kept stopping to regroup before finally giving up. We watched my son fall asleep with his bottle, his belly full of real food for probably the first time ever but still so happy to gently rub his stomach and drink. I held him asleep against my shoulder and kissed his soft, squooshy cheek over and over. We put them down and went to sit on the couch.

I think I was glad to hear her fussing a bit, glad to have the excuse to go get her and bring her out for a little longer. I know I was glad for the chance to stretch out with her, to cushion my daughter and feel so incredibly grateful that I get to be her mama.