It was the end of the day, and as I gathered up my youngest daughter for bedtime I realized I was tired too. But it wasn’t just a physical fatigue, though my eyes felt gritty. It was an emotional weariness. I had a handful of problems worrying me, and like rocks in your pocket, after you gather so many they start to weigh you down.
Come to Poppa.
I felt the call to lay it all down, and I smiled at the thought of surrender. It was all about trust, you know?
Earlier that day I had put the same baby daughter down for a nap. She seemed so soundly asleep, and I slipped swiftly out of the room while visions of steamy showers filled my senses. I was a sucker for hot water and hair conditioner, but as soon as I let the spray soak my tresses I heard her bawling plea. “Come get me!” her cries screamed, and I jumped out of the shower slip-sliding my way to her side before she fell from the bed.
I won’t lie; I was mad. I was mad that she had napped for less than 15 minutes. I was mad that I was wet and freezing. And I was mad that I never had a moment just for me. I honestly wanted to scream at that baby right that moment, but then she did something that changed it all around. She leaned herself into my body, and she rested her small head on my chest.
It wasn’t just the laying her head on me either. It was the whole act of it, the way it felt, what it implied. Her body was limp. She was in a position of complete abandonment and total surrender. She was exhausted, and her posture showed it. She fell into me, her full weight rested against me, and the feeling of absolute trust was palpable.
Her tiny trusting body felt so wonderful pressed against mine that I kissed the top of her head. Once, twice, then again, and I just held her. I held her until she was done resting in me.
Come to Poppa.