My daughter is asleep on me, her warm body fused into mine. I am typing with one hand; a skill learned nearly six years ago during hours of breastfeeding.
My daughter sleeps, and I hold her the way I held her as a baby. I drop my lips to the top of her head, but instead of the sweet milk scent of a newborn, she smells of toothpaste and upset.
I am holding her because I am sorry; she came to me to be held because she is sorry too. Because once again the day ended in shouting; in pointless arguments between a five-year-old who can’t help herself and a thirty-seven-year-old who should know better.
And so we lie, not talking, because we have said all we need to say, too many times. She has promised not to hit me; not to scream and rail and refuse to go to bed. I have promised not to shout; not to tell her how much her behaviour angers me. I have promised to be the parent, not the child.
I hold my children all the time. I dole out kisses until they roll their eyes, and I squeeze them tight when they step off the school bus. But I don’t do this. I don’t listen to their breathing, or smell their hair. I don’t lie in contented silence not thinking about emails to be sent; washing to be folded; lunches to be packed. I don’t live in the moment and hold them when they need to be held. Not enough.
Life is short, and I already have a child I can never hold again. In a few years my remaining children will be grown, and I will have to shut my eyes to recall that smell of toothpaste; the faint burr of a heartbeat against mine. I must stockpile it – for them and for me. I must take every chance of a hand slipped in mine, or a scramble of limbs into my lap, and savour it. Because it won’t be there forever.