holding her hand

I lie in bed with my four-year-old daughter.

We’re holding hands on top of the blankets.

Her eyes are closed, I’m half reading a novel and half gazing at her tender, sunburned cheeks.

My little Finnian.

Our time together is both sweet and bitter. You know the combination.

We have our moments – my youngest daughter and I.

She is strong-willed and she is loud and she demands attention and as the youngest daughter in a family of so many, she currently adheres to the philosophy of “by any means necessary”.

She is me.

And I am her.

You can imagine the struggles that creates.

But I love her.

Oh, how I love her.

And as I hold her hand on nights like this, quiet together after a good exhausting day overflowing with sunshine and waves and sand and grit and shared laughter, I could just about explode with the passion I feel for this child.

This sprite of a girl created in love and raised in a mess of trying to figure all that out.

My little willow.

May you be as your name implies. (Your third name in a long list, you treasured little creature of beauty and delight.)

A willow.

Strong. Durable. Able to bend and stand back up straight.

Tough. Resilient.

Lovely.

My little willow.