As I type this, I have 2 little three-year old arms wrapped around my waist, and a long haired, dirty blonde head resting on my chest. The older kids are off to school, and my "baby" just woke up and climbed up here on my lap. She is going through an interesting stage. She is my shadow and won't let me out of her sight. I think I remember my other kids being younger when they went through their "separation anxiety" stage. But here she is, just barely 3 years old, and attached to me with that invisible string as I go about my daily duties. I have been complaining about it lately, because it just makes it hard to do anything. As I walked toward the bathroom yesterday, she yelled for me, and I had to turn around and basically ask for her permission to go to the bathroom by myself, please. It's that bad.
But as she sits here on my lap, her little heart beating against mine, and her sweet full cheeks all rosy from slumber, my frustration ebbs.
I am filled with love for this little one, and feel determination to just relax and enjoy the fact that she wants to be near me. She is my baby. My last. The other kids clung at one point too, but their time has past. This is my last chance. She may never want to be this close to me again.
I'm scooping her up, and we will climb the stairs together.
Heartstrings tied, we will face the day.