Mothered, By My Daughter

Today, my daughter mothered me.

I lay on my side draped across my bed, windows open looking out to acres of trees and grass, soft breeze flowing through the bedroom. Cockatoos squawking and trees gently dancing with the wind. The clouds are scarce and low—blue sky expansively covering the earth like a dome.

I feel soft and gentle of spirit. Six days after giving birth and my body is healing beautifully. I rest to nurture myself.

And as I lay, without prompting, my almost-2-year-old daughter begins to methodically cover me in bamboo scarves, clean towels from the corner of the room and muslin baby wraps. As she delicately lays each on me she silently considers if it’s placed well enough. Occasionally she takes her palm and pats the spot where she last laid material. Over and over she lays wraps on me.

Normally a boisterous and well-spoken little girl, for the longest time she was silently going about her business. Sometimes she’d stop, carefully lay a piece on the carpet beside the bed and declare it was a ‘pit-nick’ (picnic).

The sun began to set, and the air grew cooler. I asked her to close the window. She’d never done it before but had no trouble calmly obliging me.

Where did she learn such perfect nurturing skills? She is a divinely bright girl. Deeply kind. Fascinated by the world around her. The gift I never knew I needed. My deep desire is to show her overflowing patience and kindness, each day. How else could I respond to such a pure-hearted being?

As I continue to lay on the bed, the sun now setting low behind the ridge, I’m reminded that we each have gifts around us…if we can simply see and receive them.