You saw me that day, gently rocking my daughter against my chest as we moved through the aisles at Target. You smiled politely, then said something you probably didn’t think twice about: “You’re going to spoil that baby.”
You said it like a friendly piece of advice—something passed down through generations of well-meaning strangers. I smiled back, kissed the top of her head, and went on with my shopping.
But if you only knew what I know, you’d understand that I’m not spoiling her. I’m teaching her something she’s never known before: safety, trust, and love.
The Ten Months Before Me
For the first ten months of her life, my daughter lived in an orphanage. A clean, cold, efficient place filled with metal cribs and echoing silence. She was surrounded by other babies, but rarely held. Her comfort came not from arms or lullabies, but from the habit of sucking her fingers.
She didn’t know what it felt like to be rocked. She didn’t know that crying could bring someone to her side. She learned quickly that silence was safer, because no one would come anyway.
The First Time I Held Her
I’ll never forget the moment the caregiver placed her in my arms. She was so small, so fragile, her eyes wide with confusion and fear. She didn’t cry—but she didn’t relax either. For a few seconds, I saw something flicker across her face—serenity mixed with terror. No one had ever held her like that before. She didn’t know what it meant.
In those first days together, she would wake quietly in her crib, never calling out. She would rock herself to sleep, bang her head softly against the rails, trying to feel something. Her little body was “independent” in the saddest way imaginable.
The Long Road to Safety
So now, when I carry her pressed against my chest, when I rock her to sleep or hold her longer than most people think I should—it’s not indulgence. It’s repair.
Every time she feels my heartbeat, she learns something new: You’re not alone. You are safe. You belong.
We’re rebuilding trust one cuddle at a time. She’s learning that love doesn’t vanish when she closes her eyes. That someone will always come when she wakes. That she doesn’t have to rock herself anymore—because Mama’s arms are here.
The Small Miracles
Now, she whimpers when she’s put down, not when she’s picked up. She sings in her crib after naps because she knows someone will answer her. She giggles when I lean in to kiss her cheek.
And one day—one of the greatest days of my life—she reached for me on her own. No prompting, no hesitation. She simply stretched out her tiny arms, asking to be held. That moment brought tears to everyone around us.
Spoiling Her with Love
So yes, to the woman in Target, I am spoiling this baby. I’m spoiling her with affection, consistency, and the safety she was denied for far too long. I’ll carry her a little longer, for as many months or years as she’ll let me.
Because she’s not just learning how to walk—she’s learning what it means to be loved.
If you only knew what I know… you’d tell me to hold her tighter.