I see you, baby girl, all curled up into a ball next to me, and can’t believe you’re mine. Tiny toes, so quaintly curled up, so delicate and yet so strong. Your chin’s so determined. You look like me, I think. A miniature me. The way you sleep, even, is exactly the way I do. Nothing lady like about it. Hands and legs all over the place. I love the way you’re growing up. But still want to shove you back into my stomach sometimes, protect you from the big bad world out there. But then, that’s impossible.
I know we don’t always get along. I think that’s because we’re too alike. Equally stubborn. Equally adamant about the things we want. I want you to remain that way. I want you to have a backbone. Because I’ve developed one quite late in life. I want you to be able to say no when you want to. This does not give you the right to randomly refuse things like milk though. Or a sloppy kiss from me. That’s my God given right. I will forever hold you and kiss you whenever I feel like it. And embarrass the hell out of you. Because that’s in my job description as a mother. The first line, that too.
I see you growing up too soon sometimes, wiping my kisses away, asking me not to ‘ditsurb’ you when you’re reading. But then, you walk up to me, as am curled up in bed, reading, and you take my face in your tiny hands, kiss me and ask me to hold you. I ask you why – and you always say – “Because am your baby, no mamma. Babies should be held.” And I hold you, and try my best not to cry.
Not everyone will understand our nonsensical songs, baby, but I’ll always sing them for you, until you’re tired of them. You will always be my kukka pilla. Just like I’ll forever be yours.