Her eyes slowly opened. Green eyes, black lashes. The contrast is startling, like stepping out into a bright day after being indoors.
Her eyes opened and as if weighed down by calling dreams, shut again, drawn closed by the beautiful siren song of innocent sleep.
Her lashes brushed against her cheek, that silken, soft, perfect cheek so wonderful to touch, infinitely soft. How could there ever be a more perfect piece of skin?
Her breath escaped with a small sigh. It whispered out of her tiny lips, parted and pink, plump and full like the girl herself.
She settled into my arms, falling more deeply with each passing moment. Her little body relaxed until she was limp in my arms, completely helpless, and completely protected.
How many times have I held a sleeping child in my arms and been brought to tears? Too many to count.
Each time, I am so very, painfully aware of the gift I have been given, of the precarious pleasure of sleeping babies. She is four, but she is my baby. If I could hold my 13 year old while he sleeps, I would. They all become babies again when they sleep in my arms.
Each time I hold them, I pray that they will be safe, that I can protect them. To lose one of them is more than I could bear. To have them is almost unbearably wonderful. How was I so blessed? Why did God choose me to be their mother, their protector, their teacher, their friend?
The profound burden He has placed upon me is terrifying. I have been charged to take care of these precious, precious people. How I pray I can do right by them. How I hope I they don't make my mistakes. How I wish I could make sure I don't make any mistakes with them, even though I know I do, every day.
She sighed again. She tells me she dreams of my little ponys and carebears. That is her favorite dream. I love her dreams.
I carried her to my bed, and laid her down and watched her. I wasn't tired yet, so I returned to the computer, to kill time until I could sleep, but her image will not leave me. Why am I on the computer, when I could be snuggling with an angel?
Because I need you to know how beautiful Olivia is. I want you to see how lucky I am. I want you to know that I appreciate every minute of every day that God had granted me to be with her, and her brothers and sister. Even when I am angry with them and feel like I am going insane, still.... in my heart, I am grateful.
See her lashes against that silken skin? See the tiny red mark on her cheek from the many kisses I have pressed there? Do you see the brown hair with gold highlights, curling around her neck and spilling onto my arm? Do you see the tiny hand, with the dimples and the dirt under the nails, curled under her chin? The little tummy that rises and falls with her every breath? The toenails that are painted blue, because she likes that color? The bruised knees and shins of an energetic little girl? The face of an angel, sleeping in my arms?
I want you to know I am grateful. Do you see?
