Mama Hope

“Can’t do it Dada.” Beth insists. She hands her Daddy a small plush butterfly that she has been trying to stuff into a toy purse. “You can do it”, her Daddy encourages her. “Can’t!” she replies, with a bit more emphasis this time. “It’s OK”, her Daddy says patiently, “You can do it.” He’s right, she can do it. And after a bit more effort, the toy is in the bag. Beth beams at her Daddy and they exchange a look of mutual satisfaction.

A few days later, we are at the playground. Beth has decided to conquer the ladder that bars her passage to the slide. She appears so small as she puffs and pulls herself up the rungs. I stand close by, waiting. Suddenly, she is teetering on the third rung. Worried that she will fall, I reach out to help. “NO!”, she shouts and rejects my interference. I release my grip on her tiny waist but poise my arms below her just in case. A few minutes later she shrieks with joy as she zips down the slide, unharmed. She feels more confident now that she has mastered a new skill.

Taking chances and stretching her limits is a big part of Beth’s life. She’s almost two and determined to keep up with her six year old brother and three year old sister. So she throws herself into challenges, sometimes with an over abundance of caution, other times with less trepidation. Its nice to see that Beth is so independent, so driven, so confident. But sometimes I long for her to need me more - to snuggle and tend and feed as I did when she was an infant.

Just when I am beginning to feel obsolete, Beth stumbles over her shoes and falls. She erupts into tears. I rush to her and scoop her into my arms. I reassure her with wet kisses and warm hugs and brush specks of dirt from her hands and knees. No bleeding. Nothing broken. All is well. Still, she buries her head in my shoulder, soaking my shirt with her tears. I press her close and make shushing sounds as I whisper “I love you my pretty little baby Bethy Jelly Bean.”

I know too well that the day is near when Beth falls down but does not need me to pick her up. She is already learning a bit each day. I know this is a good thing. I am happy that we are nourishing her with the confidence she needs to grow from a tiny rose bud to a blooming flower. Now Beth is trying to cram her feet into her socks. The socks do not cooperate. She presents the socks to me and pleads with wide brown eyes “Mama hope?” I laugh at her unusual pronunciation. “Mama help”, I say. For now she is still my baby girl.