Her Love

After a sweaty bus ride home, I trudged through the large wooden door to our 5th floor apartment.

And there she was. Cuddling with daddy on the fat purple sofa, running her plump fingers through his scraggly hair. A massage, a tickle, a tender touch. I stood transfixed, staring at the two of them, his arms wrapped around her tiny figure. Then she whispered something in his ear. He laughed, a smile so bright, carving that soft squint into his happy eyes. He whispered something back in her ear. She laughed, throwing her head back in wonder. Unsure where she picked up the head-back-laughing. Not me.

I leaned against the living room white wall, then crouched to the floor and placed my pack down quietly, not to disturb the beauty I was witnessing. I crouched, like she crouches. Half the time it’s for a poop, but most of the time it’s to sit and wait, and wonder, and watch — that little fresh brain churning, processing, understanding this big world.

I crouched. I watched. I processed. And I cried.

***

Since I’ve joined Substack and since I started writing into my motherhood, and reading other mothers who write, I only see the pain. I only see the tiredness, the exhaustion. The complete losing yourself for another. The sacrifice. The supermoms. The ugh ugh ugh.

What about the good stuff?

What about the parts when she finally notices you crouching on the floor, tumbles off the couch, and comes charging toward you after you’ve been gone all day, chubby fingers outstretched, eyes locked only on yours, shouting mami, mami as she crashes into you with a million kisses?

Or when she notices you had a bad day ’cause your shoulders are sagged. She sees it. She grabs your chin, looks straight into your eyes. Nods her head. Mami ta ben? Ta ben? Mama ‘appy? Mama ‘appy? With her juicy cheeks as she pats my back, rubbing her tiny palms against me in comfort.

She sleeps in her own room, tucked into a low wooden house-bed — pine slats forming the outline of a tiny home, a sheet draped like a roof to make it feel safe, her private nest. In the mornings, I try to rise before she does. I ease her door open, inch by inch, careful not to let the hinges speak. Our bedroom is just next to hers, separate doors side by side. I slip back through mine and tiptoe-race beneath the covers, waiting for the sound of her small feet finding me.

And why?

Because I yearn for that beautiful moment when she stumbles her little legs, rubbing her sleep-swollen eyes, hair a mat, as she runs for morning cuddles, morning kisses, morning love.

This is my favorite moment of each day.

We move to wake up Daddy. Papa. Dada. We try to see which kiss finally stirs him. Mom kisses his head. Nina kisses the head. Mmm, no working. Hmmm (taps chin the way Miss Rachel does when thinking). Let’s try the arm.

Mom kisses the arm. Nina kisses the arm. Mm, no working. Chin taps. Eyes look up. Let’s try the ears.

Mom kisses the ear. Nina kisses the ear. And at last, a smile spreads wide across his face, the kind that breaks the night. Only then do his eyes flutter open. She squeals. Daddy wake up! Daddy wake up! Wake up! She dives in for a long hug.

Her hug will last long. Ten seconds at least. Ten whole seconds in toddler time, an eternity of love. She doesn’t let go until every ounce of joy has sunk into her tiny bones.

***

Everything changes. The seasons. The leaves. The light. The love.

And each day, she changes too, unfurling fresh wings from each night’s cocoon. Yesterday she was building ice cream cones out of magic sand, her fingers sticky with imagination, feeding us scoop after scoop. Today she is a caretaker, bathing her tiny figurine friends one by one, whispering to them as the water runs. Minnie and Mickey kiss, then sit in the corner. Five minutes later she circles back, makes them kiss again, and goes on playing. She dries each tiny body with her chubby fingers before returning them to their places. Her voice shifts with every scene: Donald’s quack, Goofy’s deep silly laugh, Bluey’s dad’s rumble, Bingo’s squeal. A whole chorus inside one small girl. Every day she invents something new. Every day she grows.

Motherhood isn’t just about being tired. I’m tired all the time. And we relish in that. We blast it out every fucking day. We complain, we announce it to the world: See us! The mothers! We aren’t just mothers. We are women with many talents. We are exhausted. We are…

And all my articles echo it. And it’s true… I am tired. All. The. Time.

But I’m also tired of reading about the tired.

Because this essay isn’t about pain. It’s about purpose. And that purpose is her love.

Life is about fighting. Finding that fight. Finding the path that leads back to the light. Her light.

And my light. My world. My beauty, wrapped in chubby cheeks. I luvoo. Luvoo. In her Argentinean accent. (Yes, her English comes out in the beautiful Italian rhythms of Argentina.)

Why don’t we write about this more often? The love. The moments that crack your chest open. When she waddles toward me and there’s a burst inside so fierce the only way to steady it is to pull her in, squeeze her small limbs until I almost burst myself.

To absorb.

To connect.

To her.

To her love.