Peering in to the cot, she was stretched out along the far edge, lying on her assorted stuffed animal "friends". Gorgeous.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, though, I caught sight of her face. She looked so identically like her sister. Again. Nothing I haven't seen before. But that coupled with the lack of breath sounds made something leap in my breastbone so violently it left a pain in my chest. The thick surge of familiar adrenalin pumped into my neck, creating instant pressure that threatened to burst my head off.
"Is she ok?" I whispered to Steve. He nodded, "Yeah, fine." And that was the moment she silently stirred awake and casually reached her hand out for her dummy, found her mouth and shut her eyes again like we weren't even there.
I was already walking up the hallway, a little shocked at once again having to face the mortality of my children. I don't know why, but I always imagined as Lolly gets older, she would stop looking so much like her older sister. But it doesn't appear to be happening. Steve knows and sees it too. It's kind of bizarre. Comforting in some respects, all respects actually... except this one. It's just not nice to gaze at your child and know what she would look like "that other way".
It will always be like this. Well.... for as long as I have to keep checking on her while she sleeps, it will.
Here are their photos for the wall I'm doing; it's nearly finished, by the way :)
