I'm sitting with her in the dark.
We gave her a nightlight even though she's too little to feel fear.
I guess I didn't want her to be scared, even now.
She's just finished nursing and I can't seem to put her back,
no matter how heavy my eyelids get,
or how sore I know my arms will be from holding her up so long.
I just can't put her in her crib.
Peeta will be upset;
he wants to share the nighttime shifts.
But he can't feed her,
only I can.
And, selfish as it is,
I don't want to share that with anyone.
She needs something only I can give her,
and she gives me something back.
Her little baby self has already given me so much –
my sanity,
my peace,
my hope and optimism.
Yes, there are still days where I can't get out of bed,
or nights where I can't seem to find my way out of the maze that is my mind.
But when that happens,
Peeta brings her to me and we sit,
together,
me just listening to her heartbeat,
her little noises as she yawns or smacks her lips.
I have her now,
and I have Peeta,
and somehow the days don't seem so bad anymore.
That, and the good days seem better.
Who would have thought that something that I was so afraid to have
would bring me so much comfort?
So, on nights like tonight,
I sit in the rocking chair and look out at my forest
and listen to the crickets chirping through her open window,
listen to her hungry mouth being fed by my body,
and think how wonderful it is to be her mother,
her mama,
her mommy.
It is a title I would never have chosen for myself ten years ago,
and a title I would not trade for the world now that I have it.