Last night somewhere around midnight I heard muffled sobs coming from the little kids’ room. I found my three year old daughter in a state somewhere between the conscious and the subconscious, writhing around in obvious pain.
Not the first time.
Not the first kid.
They get it from me.
(And, oh, by the way, apparently these are NOT ‘growing pains’ but I’ll let you read more about that here.)
In any event, I was not able to settle her in her own bed so I tucked her in beside me in mine and with a gentle-but-firm massaging motion and some slightly off-key renditions of her favorite lullabies, I was able to lull her back to a dream state.
However, before she was fully out of it, she had enough wits about her to tell me to stop rubbing her legs (oooo-key dokey) and then she rolled onto her side, reached out her right hand as far as it would go, and gently rubbed our cat’s back.
I could have cried from the sweetness of this gesture, but instead I just relished this tender moment, made even more special because our Bailey will be going to a new home this Saturday. Her rubbing. His purring. Oh, my heart may have melted just a little.