March Winds: being a Mom to Arianna

It's 4 AM. And you're turning, twisting, rolling over me in your sleep. I try my hardest to catch you in my arms, and hold you close. You are not a cuddly baby. You have always wanted to move.

In the brief moments of rest, I stare at your long lashes and think about how long, how tall, how big you're getting. Each second your cells are regenerating, and you are growing, and growing away from me.

10 months old, soon to be 11. Everything is new and exciting. This does not help your sleeping.

You move again, turn over and try to get situated in a different crevice of my armpit. I try to encircle you with my arms, to keep you from tumbling off the tall bed.

You are a pink kite, trapped for a moment in the branches of my tree, while the March winds blow on.

You are the insatiable pachyderm, pulling all the laundry out of the basket, finding every dirt spec and plastic tag on the carpet.

You are the bouncy, crazed March hare, wriggling, refusing to be held. You have to go, go, GO!

You dance, one arm on the couch, the crib, or me. Not quite ready to let go, but so so close.


And as your 1st birthday approaches, I think about how much you change, every night. More hair. More sparkle of understanding in your eyes. More teeth!

And I can't stop the clock! My tiny baby is gone. You are inching, quickly towards toddler-hood.

Outside the daffodils are about to burst. The grass is turning greener. The forsythia is out! We are hurdling through space, around the sun. More growing. More change.

I will try to teach you in the sweet quiet times. And I will try to teach you as you blur past me like a fiery comet.

 I will try to hold on for the ride of my life.