Hold

In the early morning she crawls across her cot, eyes still half closed, curls mussed, seeking. She reaches out for me and I draw her onto our bed and under the thick doona.
"Hug, Mama," she tells me. 
She rearranges my arms. One arm goes under her head, her pillow. The other arm she wants across her. "Hold." 
I hold her, my cheek resting on her forehead. Her tiny, slender fingers grasp warmly to one of my bigger fingers. Soon her breathing returns to the deeper slowness of sleep. 
I need to be up and moving, showering, changing, packing their day care bags, getting breakfast into them and teeth brushed, shoes found. But my little girl lies sleeping in my arms and all is warmth and comfort and deep content. I stare at her face, still amazed and awed that she is mine.
She is so independent now. She wants to be out, exploring, doing her own thing. She waits at the garden gate, her bag packed with bright pink phone, old wallet, plastic keys and a few small dolls. She wears an old red velvet hat of my Mum's. She waits for an opportunity to slip out, to run up the road, to see the world. She runs through the house, her arms outstretched "Flying! Flying!" She sits down in the middle of the road, refusing to go further. She doesn't want to hold my hand. She is her own being and desires to go unfettered. 
No more my baby, her own decided and sure little girl. 
But for now, warm in our own nest, with the cold and dark just a step, just a minute away, I hold her safe in my arms. 
Hold.