I was heading to bed the other night and went into your room first to kiss you goodnight, like I always do. And you were sound asleep…and absolutely perfect.

I watched you for a while. I smiled. I remembered. I wished. I prayed.

And I turned to walk out.

Then I came back and climbed in next to you. I looked at your eyes gracefully moving beneath closed eyelids and imagined where your dreams were taking you. I imagined where life may take you.

I looked at your little hands…your face, untouched by the stresses of life…your legs splayed out in exhaustion from a day full of playing.

And it hurt.

Every mother knows the hurt I’m talking about. It’s not joy. It’s not sadness. If I had to guess where its roots lie, I would have to say that it is gratitude magnified to the point where it burns.

Your heart grows too big…and it hurts.

I lied next to you for quite a while thinking about how proud I am of you and how kind you are. I think of the hundreds of nights I sat in my own bed silently wishing for you and the magical day when my wish was granted.

My wish was granted, and her favorite color is blue. She likes to sing. She fills my purse with rocks and crayons. She hugs me better than anyone in the world.

My wish has a name. My wish has a body. My wish calls me mommy.

My wish is lying right here dreaming her own dreams.

And, yes, it hurts to look in the eyes of an answered prayer.

Thank you is so very small, but I say it anyway, because I don’t know what else to say. (tweet this)

What else do you say when prayers become people and wishes become wonder?

[thank you]

Image by Susana Fernandez

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