Small flailing body in my arms. Screechy loud upset voice over wishes and desires that conflict with each other in ways she can’t understand. Frustration. This loud little thunderstorm isn’t a big and powerful thing. It is just bigger than the her I’ve known as she has grown to be this size. Just like her hands look huge in all their littleness, as they are so much bigger than the newborn hands she used to have.
Breathe in. (the scent of her hair has changed since she was a newborn. Less overpowering babyness and more little girl). Breathe out.
Breathe in. (She has grown so much since she was born. Big little hands. Big little feet. So tall!) Breathe out.
Breathe in. (She is so tiny still, in my lap. Hands dwarfed by mine. Feet so small.) Breathe out.
Breathe in. (She has words now, but so few and so hard for her to say. She repeats them over and over to try and get them right.) Breathe out.
Breathe in. (Feel my own size. My own strength. My own bigness. Look at her from the scale of me and where I have grown, not from the scale of how tiny she used to be.) Breathe out.
Oh little girl. Trying to be as big as the little things inside. I’ll hold my calm for you. You can rage it out, let it go, and when you pause to look at me I’ll be those open arms for you to clamber into, still wailing. I’ll hug you tight and tell you it’s okay. Storms pass. It’s all a part of growing. Your body will calm against my own, your breathing will slow, you’ll look up at my face and your tears will slowly stop. Red eyed, damp-cheeked, hiccuping from your sadness and upset.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I love you, little one.