I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor--my usual sewing posture--as I turn an edge of the fabric and iron the hem down. In the background an audiobook is playing. It's a book I've wanted to read for awhile--and now I'm finally getting to it. Piles of fabric cuttings are around me, piles of girly, flowerdy lovliness. I've been at it for days now. I've barely touched a sewing machine since I was married, and now I'm knee deep in four projects at once. One for church, and then three dresses for three little girls.
Tirza is on the bed, happily amusing herself--she has been for awhile now. The world is such a facinating place to her that she doesn't have any difficulty entertaining herself. I glance up as she starts talking in her baby language. I stretch my legs as I stand, and think at some point in the near future I'll have to start sewing at a table like a normal person. Tirza's talking in a loud, happy voice, and that tells me she'll need to take her nap soon. She gets more talkative when she's sleepy. But for the next few minutes it's playtime.
I scoop her up and she gins in delight. I grin back--it's impossible not to smile at that gummy grin that is all for me. How did I never know that this is what it's like to be a mother? I talk back to her, imitating the baby sounds she's making at me. I ask her if she knows the sounds a frog makes--I don't think we've done animal sounds before. I work through all of them I can think of--moos, baas, meows, all of it-- to her delight.
We move to the nursery so I can change her diaper. The cloth are in the wash, so I grab a disposable. I sing her favorite song while I work, and think that she really IS My Sunshine. I kiss her tummy when we're done, and she laughs. There is nothing she delights in more than mommy or daddy time. I swing her up and around--more delighted coos.
I roll back on the floor and put her on my chest, tiny feet dangling on either side of my head as she laughs down in my face. She knows what's coming next. I playfully nip at her toes, like I'm a fish, and her toes are the fishing line. She laughs in delight as I nibble at her other foot. She loves this game. Is it my imagination, or is she actually wiggling her toes this time to try to "catch" me?
A few more minutes and she's getting sleepy. She dosen't laugh quite as much, her eyes are tired, she's starting to fuss just a little bit. Yes, it's naptime. I cuddle her close in a hug, and say a prayer over her. I put her gently down in her basinnet--the one she's almost outgrown--and pat her back a couple times. She fusses for just a minute or two, more on principle than out of genuine upset--and is asleep.
I feel sadness. This is such a perfect, happy moment. I'm in love. My baby is perfect. And I'm the only one who will ever remember it. This moment, these days--one play day after another, strung together like a string of exquisite pearls--and she won't be able to remember. I want her to remember. I want her to remember all the fun we've had. I know there will be more wonderful moments--but THIS one. I want her to remember this one.
So, before taking up a needle and returning to the flowerdy girl fabric, I tiptoe to my computer to write out what just happened. It's just an ordinary moment. One that has happened many times over. But it's so beautiful, so special, so perfect. She's too young to remember our fun times, but maybe, if I write it out, she can remember them through my eyes.