How Many Times Can You Fall In Love
Written by Ashley Smith of Sugar Britches

When I saw this month’s writing prompt, I immediately composed a post in my head regaling you with the story of how my husband and I came to be with each other. Then I remembered that I had already written that post a few years ago. And who hasn’t already heard everyone else’s love story? They met, they fell in love. They parted ways only to meet again. Or some other version of the same. It’s all romantic, a bit sappy, but original to each of us.

Instead I want to tell you about the last time I fell in love. See, I have kids. Three to be exact. If you are a mother in any way shape or form you know what I mean about loving your kids. It’s crazy love. Possessive love. Mother bear love. The kind that gives you superhuman strength. The kind that frightens you more than you thought anything ever could. I say this with all honesty and not a bit of snark (which is a hard thing for me) that I love my children more than I have ever loved anything or anyone on this earth. More than my husband. More than my parents. Way more than my first pet. Light-years more than my first “true love”. But like I said, it’s this last time that I fell that I want to discuss.

This last time, I fell hard. I mean cliff diving front flip belly buster into an ocean of snuggles, tantrums, and endless crashing waves of ecstasy and fear. My baby, I still call her my baby although she will be four whole years old this summer, my last child, my only girl. She stole my heart, every bit I had left after doling it out for the past 8 years and won’t let go.

Yes, yes…I know I have two other children. Rough and tumble boys who find farts hilarious and wrestling a part of their daily to-do list. I love them, it is obvious. They don’t want for attention anymore than any other child with siblings. But the fact remains that they are boys. Different in a way. I don’t get them. It was easier when they were babies and toddlers and the gender differences weren’t so pronounced. I’m guessing that is what daddies are for, besides the obvious reason of procreation. Because little boys need someone to connect with. Someone who gets them and why they are motivated to poke each other with sticks, lick unsanitary things, and never ever and I mean never stop moving. I love those boys, never mistake that.

While it was just the four of us for a short time, it didn’t feel complete. The last thing we needed was another mouth to feed, and I would never win an award for patience, but I felt compelled to try for just one more. And maybe, hopefully, wish on every single star that I would get a girl. Never in a million years did I think such an important wish would come true. It was granted, and she was a star gifted to me by the heavens and Mother Nature herself. We named her Stella, Greek for star. A perfect miniature incantation of myself. The blonde hair, green eyes, fierce expression all a perfect mimic. I was instantly in love. She was and is pure magic.

I have reveled in her for the past three years. Swooned over her absolute gorgeousness. Laughed myself silly alongside her baby and toddler giggles. Watched in awe as she navigates this life she was given.

The other night she tried to fly, which resulted in ER trip. She fought the CT scan as hard as she could until they made me leave the room. She was scared of the “bachine” and screamed over and over for me. I stood outside the door listening. At first she was hysterical, and when she realized that wasn’t working she began to reason with them using all her three year old knowledge of persuasiveness. “Can I please have my Mommy now?” ” I just really want my mommy.” Eventually she held still, the “bachine” did its thing,  and the doctor brought her out to me. He commented that this must not be my first rodeo since I wasn’t beating down the door or crying myself. I laughed and jokingly told him my boys had broken me in well. What I didn’t say was that I was sick to my stomach, listening to my heart scream from the other room.

We lie in bed and snuggle every night. Every night that she doesn’t try to sleep with us. And yes, I am a complete sucker for her when she tells me that she wants to sleep with me because she loves me. Or because I am her precious mommy. Or because my bed is awesome and her’s is not. We cuddle, touch noses, sling arms around each other and I often whisper that she is my favorite. It is our secret. I tell her not to tell her brothers. That it is very important because not everyone understands. There is no love like the love between a mother and daughter.

Ashley Smith loves turquoise, antique white, thunderstorms, dark coffee, dark chocolate, and dark red wine, thrifting, crafting, writing, picture taking, child loving, messing with her husband, pretending to know what she is doing and blogging. Don’t forget blogging. Visit her at SugarBritches, her online home of three years where she chronicles her cooking, crafts, and kids. And also routinely drinks wine out of Mason jars.