Yesterday I was woken up by a knock on my door. I had another rough night of pregnant insomnia, so at 615 in the morning I wasn’t quite ready to bounce out of bed and start my day.
“Come in,” I groaned.
The door creaked open, and through my blurry sleep vision I saw a messy mop of curls climb up onto my bed. Then the bed bounced a little, and suddenly a small warm figure was curled up next to me, hugging me and pressing her face against my neck. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “I love you, mommy.”
Then she put her small hand on my belly. Her pink and purple nails were chipped from the busy day we had spent pretending to be princesses. “Can I feel the baby?” She asked.
“Because I love her.” I’m 19 weeks pregnant and we don’t know the baby’s gender, but my daughter seems to be convinced. She put her hand on my belly and smiled. I put my arm around her and smelled her messy 3 year old hair.
Perfect morning. An example of why being a mom is such a special and unique experience.