I prop myself up on an elbow so I can look at #2 as she sleeps next to me—tonight she drifted off before I finished reading to her. Every now and then she twitches, perhaps pursuing something in a dream. I treasure these moments and relish the opportunity just to look at her.
Awake, she is confident, robust, kind. She is exuberant and intrepid. She has more stamina and fortitude than any six-year-old should have. Awake, she seems to swell, to become larger than life through sheer force of personality. It’s easy to forget that she is only six.
Asleep, she deflates, seems so much smaller and more fragile. Asleep, she is confined by the limits of her body. I see her now as the little girl she still is. Tomorrow when she wakes she will once again grow larger.
Looking at her, I can’t wait to see her grow up, to see what will she become and how she will surprise me and, frankly, everybody who knows her. #2 knows no limits.
When she does grow up, I will delight in who she has become, but I will always recall my little girl sleeping next to me, twitching now and then chasing some dream.