Mommy, I’m Scared

The storm outside was raging like whoa last night: wild lightning, deafening claps of thunder, torrents of rain pounding the roof and gusts of wind that  threatened to bust through the glass windows in my bedroom at any moment.

Without even opening my eyes, I could picture the destruction outside  —  tree branches that had snapped in the violent wind, plants that had been knocked over by the buckets of rain, and grass that had been parched for weeks but would resemble a lake when dawn broke.

And without even opening my eyes, I felt her presence in my room.

Before I heard her little voice murmur, “Mommy, I’m scared!” Half-asleep myself, I helped her up into our bed where she curled into my arms into an all-too familiar position, resting her head on my shoulder and her body on my left side — my arm securely around her little waist.

I kissed her forehead, pushed her hair back, and marveled at this little girl whose entire 6-pound body could once rest on my forearm … but now fully draped all the way to my knee.

Within seconds she was back asleep. I listened to her slow-and-steady breathing, as I did when she was a baby all those nights we rocked in her room; as I do with Ben now. And I held back tears. My baby is growing up, and it’s these fleeting moments of motherhood that truly take my breath away.

She may not be a little baby anymore, but — as last  night demonstrated  —  she’ll always be my baby.  And her safe place will always be in my arms. ❤


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