Dr. Laura:
The most sacred part of my day comes right before I sleep, when I slip into my daughter's room, crouch next to her bed and press my lips against her forehead and place my cheek on top of hers. Her breathing slows and deepens. She's now a teen, yet the scent of my only child, the same one I've inhaled since the day she loudly and painfully entered this world, lingers. She never wakes up, though she might sigh and turn toward me, even reaching out and letting me embrace her. Please, I pray in the dark, keep her, love her, show her, know her.
My daughter challenges me during her waking hours, as any respectable 13-year-old would. She routinely puts chores last and Pinterest first, balks at walking the dog she begged for, and wears the same pair of leggings four times rather than throwing them in the washer.
Nonetheless, she is mine. She is stamped by my husband's and my words, molded by our actions, and judges or loves according to what she's observed. When I fear I've failed her or not modeled enough grace, generosity and faith, I am comforted by our nighttime ritual, when her lungs slowly fill with the scent of her mother, and mine fill with hers.
Andee
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