between the lines

I would tell her that she has the bluest eyes, that if she could only keep them still for a moment or two I'd study their depths to be sure of the golden green flecks close to the center.

I would tell her that I want to translate every syllable she utters into poetry. That when I ask her each morning about her dreams, I want nothing less than to transport myself into that dreamworld that is hers alone - that to see her version of our world would be nothing less than a sweet-smelling piece of heaven.

I would tell her that no matter how many times I get frustrated, no matter the moments I've walked away breathing heavily through my nose as she flings chicken nuggets beyond the dining room-- pelting the living room furniture, no matter how messy she makes the house, no matter how many times I've refolded stacks of fabric as she proudly shouts FAAAA!!! FAAAA!!! from the sidelines, no matter how many screaming fits inside the bookstore because I wouldn't let her relocate the entire bottom shelf of R books, no matter the twenty-minute naps that make me feel like my brain is literally relocating outside my body for lack of toddler downtime, no matter the demands for BO! when we are nowhere near the woobie, no matter the pain, the anguish, the frustration, the physical discomfort, no matter what--- I am always always always going to be here for her.

I would tell her that she is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I would tell her that she is wicked smart. The kind of smart that can figure things out. The kind of smart that will have her always struggling to be challenged. The kind of smart that can make a person lazy if they're not careful. The kind of smart that can take her anywhere she wants to be in life.

I would tell her that one day soon she and I are going to have marvelous tea parties together, that I bought a tea set to belong to just the two of us - something for just us to share, that I bought it before she was even a whispery potential for our family, that I bought it long before she was ever conceived because I knew that she was going to be here one day.

I would tell her that I go into her room at night after she's asleep and I stand in the dark just to listen to her breathe, just to smell her skin, just to know that she's close.

I would tell her that I have every hope in the world for her: to become a doctor, a scientist, a beautiful ballet dancer, a mother, an artist, a writer, a teacher, an astronaut, a bus driver, an architect, a politician, an amazing human being.

I would tell her that there is nothing that she can't do, nothing that will limit her.

I would tell her that I am her biggest fan, her strongest proponent, her most valiant protector.

I would tell her that this dam that holds my fierce love for her in check, the barrier that keeps it from crashing over the walls and down into her arms is there for her protection. The weight of my love would crush her.

I would tell her that every hurt she experiences, pierces me twice as hard - pounding me into the ground even as I fly to her to tell her it's going to be okay, it's going to be alright, she's going to be okay, the pain--- it goes, it all goes away.


Instead, I am singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star over and over in a breathy whisper--- singing it as I cry, my tears mixing with hers, her face red and crumpled in fear and pain as I lean my entire body over hers to hold her down on the cot while two lab techs work furiously to draw her precious blood.