“Mommy!” she cries, as I walk out of her bedroom. 

I look back and—“you forgot a hug,” she says.

I didn’t forget, have just given her a fresh hug

but I retreat, pulled back by her sweet, pleading voice.

“One more hug,” I say firmly, knowing I’d give

a thousand more, if I could.

 

She turns her toddler cheek to me, leans in

close for my kiss, arms lifted skyward

as I pull her into me, separated only

by my 35-week-old and growing baby bump.

With each stretch of its fundal height, I know

it’s just a few more weeks until we meet him.

 

Just a few more weeks until I have to learn

to split my affections between them both.

For now, it is simply a matter of balancing

her on one hip, supporting his poking limbs

with my other hand. Just a shift in my weight,

my body a seesaw.

 

But with his birth will come more complexity,

more saying “mommy can’t right now, sweetie.

mommy’s too sore, too tired, too torn

in two.” For almost three years she has been

my everything, my world, my unquestionable

you-before-me, you-before-anything.

 

I know she will grow to love him as I already do,

that those first few months will just be a phase,

a blip on her childhood roadmap, the start

of a new sort of joy for her, but still I mourn

the passage of this era, when I can always oblige

one more hug.