I’d tried it all.
I turned down the sound machine, flipping through the various soundscapes— “Hmmm… what about jungle sounds?” I inquired, in my best, excited and full-of-wonder tone.
“NO. NO. NO,” protested the four-year-old being questioned. “I don’t like the frog sound!” she followed up. Understandable.
She calls me “Mamo” now, one of her first questions in the car being “is that okay, Mamo?” — “You can call me anything you want, babygirl,” I say to her in return, feeling nothing but relief to finally see the face of my child through the rear-view mirror “Mamo, I miss-ed you, Mamo,” she says, tears in her eyes, “Oh, I missed you too, nugget!” I say back. I was supposed to be gone longer. But I’m not. And she doesn’t ask why.
“Ooookay, Miss. Attitude! Dryer machine sounds it is then!” I proclaimed, setting the machine and making my way back to my daughter’s bedside to continue comforting her. First nights back home from her dad’s are always hard. I remind myself not to project my own grief onto her—just to stay present, to stay soft, as I rub her back and run my fingers through familiar hairs—both in memory to hers, and in feeling to my own.
“Deeeeeep breaths, deeeeep breaths,” I say to her, attempting to guide her into a slumber. Restless, she looks at me, tears still in her eyes “I need… I need,” “Mamo, I need to be carried around.”
Picking up my four year old, I wrap her legs around my waist, interlocking my fingers into each other, underneath her, to support her weight. Her waist against mine, seemingly no longer able to be considered much smaller than my own, her head resting on my left shoulder.
We sway. We pace. Her room, to across the hall to the master bedroom, and back. We circle to the dining room, pausing I hold her to ask “do you feel better?” — “Don’t forget the kitchen. And the living room!” she responds. Arms aching from the weight of salvation, we slowly make our way to both.
❤️