This never happens.
I walked into Delilah's room at 11:30 last night to give her one more kiss before I went to sleep myself. Sometimes, she'll stir a bit. Sometimes she will even stand up and reach for me, and I hug her for a moment and lay her down again. But last night, she wouldn't let me go. She clung strongly to my neck, her legs wrapped around my waist. I relented, and sat in the rocker with her for a bit. I could tell she had fallen asleep, but when I stood to place her back into her crib, she immediately woke and applied that strong grip again. So we sat some more.
We rocked. And as we rocked, I stroked the silky hair on her perfectly formed head. No mother can appreciate a moment like that, unless she's also been told that her child's head did not form so perfectly. It is a thing, and act, taken for granted by so many, but it's weight is not lost on me. The tears fell from my eyes and I moved my face to keep them from falling on her, from interrupting this perfect moment.
Everything about Delilah is perfect, and beautiful, and healthy, and strong. She is growing fast. Too fast.
So I was stunned when a speech pathologist told me what really shouldn't have been stunning information: Delilah has a slight speech delay.
I knew this. I knew that Eden talks too much, and Delilah doesn't get enough attention, and that Delilah wasn't saying as much as Eden said at that age, and that we shouldn't compare, but that at some point we would have to be concerned.
I knew, but I didn't care. I wanted my baby. I didn't want her to have to ask me for anything - I just wanted to give it to her. I don't want my 2 1/2 year old to transition to a toddler bed from a crib. I want to lift all 30 pounds of her into that crib as long as I can. I just want her to be my baby and I know that a good momma would let her grow up, but I am just a broken momma, made from a broken woman, and I am afraid of EVERYTHING.
I've always felt that she was sent to me because of Gabriel. Within minutes after her birth, I saw Gabriel in her face. Eden was my rainbow, but Delilah is my shining star, a twinkle in the darkness that was my postpartum depression after both of the girls were born. Eden is my girl, a little piece of me. Delilah was for me.
She is perfect. She is alive, and whole, and here, and she's my last baby. I know she is, no matter how much hope I am encouraged to hold on to, and no matter how young (or at this point, not too old) I am, and no matter how much my heart breaks every single day over this knowledge. I know it, because it hurts too much to hope, so I won't. I know that I might not be too old,. but I also know I
ve only got a 50% success rate at growing surviving children. And I know that the longer a heartbreak lasts, the harder it is to overcome, so I'll just speed through it.
Tonight as I tucked her again, she again requested that we sit a while. No. She didn't ask. She sat in the rocker expectantly, and reached for me as I approached. I sat, and she curled up against me. She grabbed the back bars of the rocker and pushed herself back and forth. "Rock? You want to rock? Can you ask momma to rock? It's okay. I'll rock you. Do you want a song? Momma will sing to you. Let's cuddle and rock, and I'll sing."
In two days she will start preschool. They will make her use her words and a fork. They will try to potty train her. She will grow taller, and leaner, as if she hadn't just stretched over night just a week ago. They can do all of that. Everyone else around us can do all of that. I'm going to rock my baby.
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