Love

She sighs and buries her face into my neck and leaves it there.  A feeling too tender to name spreads through my body as I hold her.  I am on fire with it.  I feel whole and well and at peace.  I am twenty-nine.  A one time nearly-divorcee.  I cut my hair to my shoulders and now I often think it makes me look frumpy.  Which I don't need because I already shop in the plus size section.  I spend my days washing dishes...by hand and not for pay, among a myriad other mind numbing-tasks that never end.  I also spend my days nursing my baby, trying to convince my oldest daughter I still love her and love her just as much as her little sister, playing at parks, explaining how you can tell the difference between a boy and a girl cat which leads to a discussion about the physical differences between men and women.  I don't mind those kind of talks.  I don't feel uncomfortable.  In today's world she will need me to be as open and honest with her as possible, otherwise she'll grow up taking in the twisted messages about men and women and sex and love from t.v., the internet, and misinformed older kids at school.  I look forward to my husband coming home from work, which in and of itself speaks volumes about how far we've come in the last couple of years.  I dream about going back to school.  I think about what I want to be when I grow up.  I contemplate becoming a writer, a sociologist, a cultural anthropologist or a marriage counselor.  I go for days without ever putting on a stitch of makeup.  And I don't care.  I take Zoloft.  It helps me, although I hate having to depend on a pill to help me feel normal.  It is not the life I thought I would be living, to be honest.  And you would think that I would feel defeated or depressed because of that.  And truthfully some days I do feel the sting of disappointment, mostly when I am on Facebook too much and start comparing my life to my peers.  How skinny the popular cheerleader from high school still is after having four kids.  The fabulous trip this girl took with her perfect husband.  How much so-and-so loves running/crossfit/zumba.  How proud this woman is of her husband who just graduated from medical school.  How this girl just bought a new home and on, and on, and on.  Before I can begin to internally berate myself for not being good enough I stop myself.  Wait.  Breath.  Hold my baby in my arms as the last light of day fades into blackness.  She sighs and buries her face into my neck and leaves it there.  All my life I've spent trying to be what I thought would earn the love of other people.  A good daughter.  A good friend.  A good student.  A good employee.  A good church member.  A good wife.  A good mother.  I don't know why I believe it or when it started, but somewhere deep inside of me I've always believed love to be conditional.  For this reason I've never been happy.  I've never been satisfied.  Because I always fail in some way to be just what people want.  Unlovable.  Not deserving.  But here I am in the twilight of my little bedroom all of the things that define success in my mind I am not, and yet this tiny being so trusting in my arms loves me.  It strikes me to my core.  She loves me because I am.  Quite suddenly forgiveness flows through me like a stream of water trickling into a long dry river bed.  A small voice accompanies the feeling whispering quietly in my heart, Oh Denise, you have hurt yourself so often.  Told yourself that you are worth nothing and deserving of nothing.  But it has all been lies.  You are you and that is enough.  It is a far older, wiser and more loving voice than I've ever spoken to myself with.  I lay my baby down to sleep and then sit on the edge of my bed letting my mind be quiet for once.  So this is love.