You’re only three, but I wish I could capture forever the moment of when you wake up. If I’m lucky enough to catch you still sleeping then I sit on the edge of your bed and I watch you. I watch you be silent, watch you breathe, and think of how I can’t wait to see what you’ll do when you realize I’m sitting right next to you. Because that moment, of when you open your eyes, is sort of magic. Sometimes you’ll tuck under the sheet for a quick game of “where did you go?” and other times you won’t open your eyes but you’ll reach up with your arms stretched wide. You’ll then look right at me, smile and say “I love you,” or you’ll ask me, “Is it wake up time?” Sometimes you’ll just want to know what’s for breakfast or if you can wear a dress. Other times you’ll ask me to climb in with you and have a snuggle. Every so often you’ll say “Remember when that happened?” and then you’ll describe something from weeks ago that at the time seemed so insignificant. I’m reminded that you don’t forget, anything, and these small moments are building up to greater ones that will make up who you are, how you love and who you will be.
When you wake up at three years of age I know that the most important thing in the world for you is a hug. I also know that you’ll get older and when you wake up you’ll start to think of different things. Things like friends, projects, homework, and where you’ll need to be. When I sit on the edge of your bed you may wake up right away and give me grief for not letting you sleep. But that’s okay, you kind of have a point. You’ll have to forgive me because I can’t help myself. Life seems really busy. I’m doing a lot of running around to ‘make things happen.’ But that moment, just before you wake up, somehow eludes all other responsibilities. I’m not thinking about what I need to do or where I need to be. This moment when you wake up might last seconds but in those few seconds I feel like everything makes sense. When you open your eyes I see you for who you really are and you see me. And there is only joy. It doesn’t make me feel anxious or worried that this moment may one day change, or evolve, which it will. I just feel grateful. Grateful that I’m allowing myself to see it for what it is. I don’t pat myself on the back or think, “Wow, I must have done a good job”. It just is what it is. I don’t need to tell you exactly how I feel because in that moment there is nothing but truth. You can feel it.
And in the future you’ll find someone else in your life who feels great love for you. And I suspect they’ll be around three years old. You’ll be sitting next to them on their bed, just before they wake up. You’ll watch them be silent and you’ll wait patiently until they open their eyes. And you’ll think, this moment is magic. And I’ll know exactly what you mean, because I felt it with you.
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