blurry & shared

Last Sunday evening, I needed to do a Target run for a new file system for our various important household paperwork. And, apparently, I needed to go pick it out alone. It wasn't until I was walking beneath that enormous red and white bullseye that I realized it had been months since I'd been to a store alone and four days since I'd left the house without Alice. My arms felt empty. Light. I didn't need a cart. I stood aimlessly perusing Valentine's Day cards for at least 20 minutes and I didn't go near the baby section the entire time I was there.

And when I got home I opened our front door and heard the gleeful squeal of a little girl running to greet me.

When Alice was born, I mourned her sudden physical independence. It made me so sad to have her across the room, never mind in an altogether different place once I was back at work. My body felt achey over it. I missed her. But, I've been noticing just how physically connected we still are. She is independent, for certain, but the line between us is blurry. When I cuddle with her before bed, she likes to snake her arm beneath my shirt and around my bare side. During dinner she'll pull my shirt collar down to reveal my shoulder and then gently place her cheek to my skin, holding her face there for a minute or so before getting back to her soup. This week she has not seen a need for us to eat out of separate bowls at all and pours hers into mine so we can share whatever meal we are eating. Blurry. Shared. Overlapping.

What a relief to objectively realize this connection. It is nearly a year since Alice last nursed and nearly two since she left my body. Yet, the physical hold we have on each other remains, now with the added joy of watching each other dance or play, or the freedom to breath our own air for a bit and then run with glee at the other's return.