It's my day's final, and favorite, task:
I slowly open the nursery door and take two silent hops toward the crib. Carefully, carefully, I lower my hands onto his back and rest them there.
Wrapping my fingers around his torso, I think about how big he has gotten and how fragile and tiny he remains. I mean, really, his chest is not that much larger than the burrito I ate for lunch. I lift his warm, sleeping body and rest it against mine.
We recline in the rocking chair and cover up with a quilt.
Though he is still asleep, he knows it's me, his mommy, and doesn't mind that I smell of the day's collection of spit up,
or that I left for three hours to go to work with only twenty five ounces of milk in the freezer
(none of which he drank because he approved not of the vessel).
In that moment, he's forgotten that I left him in his bouncy seat for longer than he would have liked while I finished an email. He doesn't even realize that it took me a day and a half to finish one load of laundry.
He doesn't care that his toys are still scattered all over the living room floor
and that earlier in the day I subjected him to thirty minutes of my best rendition of "December, 1963" because
I.could.not.get.it.out.of.my.head.
In that moment, though he is still asleep, he knows it's me, his mommy, and he knows why I've picked him up. He nuzzles his head until he finds what he wants. Sometimes we hold hands.
With him perfectly relaxed in my arms, we Dream Feed. He sleeps and eats. All the while, I try to remember every detail of these moments: the weight of his body, the contour of his eyebrows, his baby scent, the sound of his swallow, how he opens and closes his hand against my pajamas.
And I pray, and pray, and pray:
Thank you.
Forgive me.
Protect him.
Grow him.
Guide him.
Be gracious to him.
Thank you.
I lay him back down as smoothly as I can, feeling guilty that his sheet must feel cold compared to our snuggles. He wiggles until he is comfy and continues to rest.
I gently hop two steps back out of the nursery, pulling the door almost closed behind me. I open the next door down and climb into bed next to my husband who has already warmed our sheets.
And I pray, and pray, and pray:
Thank you.
Forgive me.
Protect him.
Grow him.
Guide him.
Be gracious to him.
Thank you.
And I get the feeling that this time, the one I'm praying for is praying for me, too.
I fall asleep with two things on my mind: the blessed assurance that God has heard my prayers and the melody replaying... Oh, what a night. Do do do do do, do do do.
I slowly open the nursery door and take two silent hops toward the crib. Carefully, carefully, I lower my hands onto his back and rest them there.
Wrapping my fingers around his torso, I think about how big he has gotten and how fragile and tiny he remains. I mean, really, his chest is not that much larger than the burrito I ate for lunch. I lift his warm, sleeping body and rest it against mine.
We recline in the rocking chair and cover up with a quilt.
Though he is still asleep, he knows it's me, his mommy, and doesn't mind that I smell of the day's collection of spit up,
or that I left for three hours to go to work with only twenty five ounces of milk in the freezer
(none of which he drank because he approved not of the vessel).
In that moment, he's forgotten that I left him in his bouncy seat for longer than he would have liked while I finished an email. He doesn't even realize that it took me a day and a half to finish one load of laundry.
He doesn't care that his toys are still scattered all over the living room floor
and that earlier in the day I subjected him to thirty minutes of my best rendition of "December, 1963" because
I.could.not.get.it.out.of.my.head.
In that moment, though he is still asleep, he knows it's me, his mommy, and he knows why I've picked him up. He nuzzles his head until he finds what he wants. Sometimes we hold hands.
With him perfectly relaxed in my arms, we Dream Feed. He sleeps and eats. All the while, I try to remember every detail of these moments: the weight of his body, the contour of his eyebrows, his baby scent, the sound of his swallow, how he opens and closes his hand against my pajamas.
And I pray, and pray, and pray:
Thank you.
Forgive me.
Protect him.
Grow him.
Guide him.
Be gracious to him.
Thank you.
I lay him back down as smoothly as I can, feeling guilty that his sheet must feel cold compared to our snuggles. He wiggles until he is comfy and continues to rest.
I gently hop two steps back out of the nursery, pulling the door almost closed behind me. I open the next door down and climb into bed next to my husband who has already warmed our sheets.
And I pray, and pray, and pray:
Thank you.
Forgive me.
Protect him.
Grow him.
Guide him.
Be gracious to him.
Thank you.
And I get the feeling that this time, the one I'm praying for is praying for me, too.
I fall asleep with two things on my mind: the blessed assurance that God has heard my prayers and the melody replaying... Oh, what a night. Do do do do do, do do do.