I’m staring at Thalia in her crib, just watching her sleep.
I don’t even know how many minutes pass, although I could probably count the time in her slow, steady breaths . I worry that it’s too hot for her, too cold for her, that her pjs have ridden up above her belly, that the there is war and anger and people who might make her feel pain in this world. I wonder what she’s thinking in this nocturnal state, what she’s dreaming.
I want her to be happy, even now.
I am so deeply in love that I can’t even imagine that there was a time before I loved her, a time where I questioned the depth of my affection, where I compared our connection with those described by other moms, hoping against all hope that I would one day feel for her what they already seemed to. I can’t imagine that there was a time that I considered her a stranger, someone I cared for and protected more by maternal imperative than love. It doesn’t seem possible. This is a love so strong, it seems to erase any feelings, any life at all that I had before it.
And so every time I wonder about this second little girl, every time the now tired, cliche fear about having enough love in my heart pops into my head, I try to remind myself of how far Thalia and I have come in 18 months.
And I must believe that lightning can indeed strike twice.