Tonight, he let's me hold him...
Tonight, he is still my baby.
April 11, 2022
I hold him until his arms and legs twitch, until his breath is slower and fuller, until the way he sucks his paci sounds different—less rhythmic. I hold him until my left arm tingles beneath the weight of his head, until his limbs grow heavy, and he melts into my arms. I hold him, utterly captivated by his long eyelashes, and his soft, round cheeks. I hold him until his mouth relaxes and his paci falls out and onto his chest.
Tonight, as I rock him in the glider, his last words are “yellow, yellow, yellow.” He holds up his paci against the soft amber glow of his nightlight to check if it’s the yellow one—his favorite one. It’s not, but it’s too dark to see and he doesn’t ask so I don’t tell him that. His brow furrows with concern. I think he knows.
Tonight, when I ask him if he wants me to sing him a song, he requests, “B-D-D-D-B.”
“Can you say A?” I ask.
“Aaayyy,” he says in a slow, drawn-out singsong voice. I can’t help but smile. Every day there is something new. Every day surprises me.
We’ve read our books, we’ve turned out the light, the sound machine is on. Loren fidgets and struggles to get comfortable for a few minutes.
“Do you want to lay down in the crib while Mommy rubs your back?” At one-and-a-half years old and 31 pounds he is getting big for this chair and for my lap.
“Mommy,” he says.
“You want to stay in Mommy’s lap?”
“Yes.”
I am so grateful because tonight he is small enough to be here. Tonight, he lets me hold him. Tonight, he is still my baby.
April 18, 2022
Tonight, he reaches for my hand (my pointer finger) as soon as we finish reading, and his head falls easily into the crook of my left arm. He listens quietly as I recount the activities of our day, highlighting some of my favorite parts: playing in the snow together, watching him rake the snow with his yellow rake (oh, the irony of springtime in Michigan), how we got to eat breakfast at Dig Cafe with Bapa and Grandma and Aunt Bethany…
“And Daddy and Baby Kai,” he adds.
Tonight, his cheeks are rosy and chapped, a combination of outside play time and teething.
Tonight, when I ask him if he wants me to sing him a song, he requests, “B-D-B-D.”
“Can you say A?” I ask him. He repeats after me until I reach the letter “J” when it’s apparent that he’s ready for a new game and is getting tired.
Tonight, I kiss the small hand tightly wrapped around my pointer finger. I tell him I love him and kiss his forehead. I hold him close and squeeze his tiny arms covered in yellow sunshine pajamas.
He falls asleep quickly, after a few rounds of fidgeting. He likes to rest his feet on my leg so that his knees are bent and slightly splayed out. Sometimes his feet slip off and he fusses. He’s getting big for this chair and for my lap, but he’d rather be with Mommy in this small glider than in his crib, and most nights I cherish that instead of growing frustrated.
My left arm falls asleep, tingling beneath the weight of his head. I stare at him one last time before I stand up and lower him into his crib for the night, place my hands on his chest, and walk quietly to the door.
April 19, 2022
Tonight, he falls asleep holding his comb. He insists on holding it and I refuse to fight with him because it only results in tears, and what, really, is the harm of letting him fall asleep with the comb anyway?
He asks for “yellow bear,” a small brown stuffed animal with a yellow shirt, his favorite. Lately he’s been saying a lot of two-word sentences, and I am amazed. Every day there is something new. Every day surprises me.
When he falls asleep, I gently take the comb out of his hands and place it on his bedside table.
There are still nights, one year later, when Loren falls asleep in my lap as we rock back-and-forth in the glider. He’s getting big for this chair and for my lap, and he realizes that now. He understands that he’s more comfortable in his bed, but he still occasionally chooses Mommy and Daddy.
At two-and-a-half years old, most of our rocking sessions are behind us. The crib has been transformed into a toddler bed, Loren’s quickly gaining independence, and he falls asleep on his own without much assistance now.
Rocking Loren to sleep hasn’t always been easy. I’ve cursed our evening routine. I’ve resented his dependency on me to help him fall asleep; I’ve grown impatient waiting for him to quiet down and drift off to dreamland. I’ve been triggered by his behavior. Disconnected. I’ve taken these nights for granted. I’ve rushed through story time, eager to turn out the lights so I could close my eyes, too.
I held him despite the advice I was given: “Lay him down drowsy but awake” and “just let him cry it out.” I held him despite the criticism: “It’s not efficient. You need to teach him to self-soothe.”
I held him because I wanted to, because I could. I held him because I knew that one day I’d no longer be able to. I held him for two-and-a-half years and if given the opportunity, I’d hold him for two-and-a-half more.
Tonight, like most nights, he asks to lay down in his bed. I sit on the floor next to him and we read stories. He always requests “one more book.” We turn off the light, turn on the sound machine, and talk about our day. I kiss his sweet forehead. We sing two rounds of the ABC’s. Loren recites every letter, attempting to keep pace. Every day there is something new. Every day surprises me.
An assortment of stuffed animals cling to the perimeters of his bed—Foxy, Hoppy, Sharky, Baby Luca, Baby Uda, Yellow Bear, and Squirrely. I put on our favorite classical lullaby playlist and I reach for his hand. I squeeze it slowly with every whispered word, “I. Love. You.” I hold it until his fingers twitch, until his breath is slower and fuller, until the way he sucks his paci sounds different—less rhythmic.
He's asleep, but I don’t rush out of his room. I hold his hand a while longer, and even though he’s asleep, I squeeze it slowly three more times. “I. Love. You.”
Beautiful <3