There comes a time at the end of a long day when the light is dim, the music is peaceful and quiet, and we gently rock back and forth in the cozy recliner. His head is nestled on my shoulder. He wraps his arm around my neck and plays with my hair or pats my back. I inhale the sweet scent of lavender from his shampoo and exhale the stress from the day.
Sometimes, he sits up suddenly, looks me in the eye and very seriously babbles important thoughts to me. I talk back and we share quite the conversation. Other times, he throws his head back and giggles at goodness knows what with his eyes looking toward Heaven.
It is simply the very, very best time of the day. And yet, these times are increasingly rare. He’s getting too active, too busy.
I suppose I should celebrate that when I was trying to rock him tonight, he squirmed and pointed to his crib. I put him in the crib and he rolled over with his cuddles and went to sleep. He wanted his crib and not me. 😩
But, isn’t that what I hoped for all those nights when I had to nurse him to sleep? When I was exhausted from how much he needed me? Isn’t that how this parenting gig goes? You get so frustrated and tired of a certain stage and then, suddenly, one day, they are out of it. And you cry. You miss it. A part of you wants to go back.
But I can’t go back. I had a baby to raise him. To grow him up. And of course, I knew I wouldn’t get to rock him forever.
So, I’m trying to celebrate our bedtime progress. He puts himself to sleep! Yay! I’m trying to enjoy it while it lasts. Or, pray he’ll always put himself to bed!!
Except for sometimes. Maybe sometimes, he’ll still crawl up in my lap and rest his head on my shoulder and let me rock him. Those will be the best sometimes ever.