If she ever asks for a ‘tuddle’ I know better than to bend down or lift her into my lap. These options are insufficient, not offering the required amount of comfort. Being hoisted up into my arms is like a salve, a balm that ceases the flow of tears, envelops her to help her forget the pain or fear that prompted her distress.
What is it about being higher that helps our perspective? Do we see our relative insignificance to the landscape, the magnitude of our problems receding into the wideness of space?
The baby who senses you have sunk into a chair and lets out a peal of frustration, the toddler who cries ‘up, up!’ The boy who wants to be carried, half awake from the back seat of the car, lulled into a sense of cushioning that only willing arms can bring.
I still remember those moments, mind in two spaces, unable to suppress a half-smile when I felt the strong arms lift me carefully, lowering me down into the feathery bed.
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