Why I live

She’s smart, funny, and extremely cute. She pushes me and tests me and cries when I tell her no. She’s only one-year-old but she throws tantrums like a three-year-old. She loves certain food one day, and the next it’s on the floor, or smeared into her hair and eyes. She’s easily distracted and easily excited.
She loves her sippy cup of water but refuses to drink milk from it. She loves soft things; her bunny, her blanket, and her lamby. She watches shows on Youtube when she eats and fusses if there is a commercial. She is starting to run, and loves to play chase. She plays well by herself, but still turns to make sure I am still there. She goes outside and picks dandelions, hands them to me, and keeps going.
She was a little early, born three weeks before her due date. She couldn’t latch when I tried to breastfeed. She had colic, and was diagnosed with acid reflux. She was a terrible sleeper, taking 30 minute naps at a time and waking up 10+ times per night. She cried and screamed all day in pain, waiting for me to soothe her. She would only calm down when I bounced with her on the yoga ball.
She grew out of her reflux when she was 9 months old. She slept through the night for the first time while I was in the hospital, recovering from post partum depression and suicidal thoughts. She came to visit me, and pointed at me with a big grin on her face when she saw her mommy for the first time in one week.
She needs me. Not only through her infancy, but through her life. I am her mother. Her nurturer. Her protector. Her rock. She is my breath. My sun. My new day. My smile. She is why I wake up in the morning and why I make myself function through the day. She is why I eat, breathe, and sleep (when she does, of course). She is my purpose, the answer to my question, “Why am I here.”

She is why I live.