That knowledge, that fear, is paralyzing, and is buried so deep I don’t often let myself stare it in the face
S he is so clingy.
She with her chubby arms flailing and thrashing and begging wordlessly to pick her up.
She with her blue eyes so deep they almost look gray pleading and yearning and wanting me in a way no one else does in the world.
She is barely eight months old and suddenly no one but Mommy will do. As soon as I enter a room she raises her stubborn fists in my direction berating me for my delay infuriated that I have momentarily left her.
She is so clingy.
And I absolutely love it.
I don’t remember this clinginess with my other children although I am sure it was there. Pretty standard eight-month-old behavior this stranger-anxiety and Mommy-preference. The intensity of emotion that overtakes me though is unfamiliar; I don’t remember the fierce love that lights my heart when I see her eyes widen in pain in hope as she turns her body toward me.
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