Last night, for the first time in about nine years, I tried “baby massage” on my eldest daughter.
Though I call her a “baby,” she’s now in fifth grade.
The first time I did it was when she was four months old.
At her three-month checkup, they said her hip joints were a little stiff, and they recommended baby massage.
Until she was about one year old, I would sing songs while stroking her legs, caressing her arms, and gently touching her tummy almost every day.
A few years later, after my second daughter was born, I even laid my eldest daughter to sleep next to her baby sister and massaged them both.
Last night, I opened the book for the first time in a long time.
And then something strange happened.
The songs, the rhythm, the hand movements—
without even trying to remember, my body started moving naturally.
It seemed that the memory of being a new mother remained in my ears, hands, and skin.
“How nostalgic,”
I thought as I started the baby massage, but that thought vanished almost immediately.
First, the arm massage.
I held both arms and raised them high.
When she was a baby, she would just stretch her arms out comfortably.
But this time,
bang.
My daughter’s hand hit the wall.
“Sorry, sorry.”
I moved it down a little and raised it again.
Next was a foot massage.
When she was a baby, I could do it while sitting in one place.
But now, I do the right foot and move to the left.
Right, left.
I’m the one moving around.
After massaging her toes, I finish with a little flick on her cheek.
I used to be able to reach that while sitting, but
now I have to walk up to her face to reach it.
If I hold her, her head is higher than my face.
And every time I touched their arms or legs, they would squirm and say,
“That tickles!” The next moment, a powerful kick came flying at me. I dodged it just in time, but if I had taken it head-on, it would have hurt quite a bit, wouldn’t it? That kind of air pressure swept past my face. Huh? This is a massage, right? I’m not doing some kind of training, am I? Just as I was starting to take shallow breaths, my eldest daughter suddenly said, “That brings back memories.” “I used to love this.” The time we spent doing this almost every day wasn’t just a memory for me. It was clearly still there for my daughters too. And I realized something else. I had always thought that my eldest daughter laughed when she was a baby because it felt good. But last night, every time I touched her, she burst out laughing and said, “That tickles!” Maybe it tickled back then too. I finally understood the reason for her smile after nine years. When my daughters finished massaging me, they said, “Now it’s my turn to massage you, Mom!” “Me too!” The sisters even decided on their roles and diligently massaged my legs and arms. They touch my dry, rough feet and bumpy fingers gently, without any hesitation. Nine years ago, I was the one touching my daughter. Last night, my daughters touched me.