My youngest turned into a big “1 year old” this morning… 6:23 am to be exact! I’m watching him fall asleep, replaying the highlights of the last 12 months- his birth, the kids meeting him for the first time, and the thrill of every “first.” He is my fourth child, but the milestones only get more exciting. This has been the best year, it really has. We are all so changed by his addition in the greatest ways possible. What an honor, to grow our family and learn how he fits in. He’s got the most mischievous smile to match the gleam in his eye, and a cackle that he just can’t contain! Those adorable qualities make it easy to let some things slide, like the throwing of dirt out of my plants, or the wanting to be held all night. But that’s how it usually goes, isn’t it? He falls asleep, and everything is forgiven. As mothers, we cannot help but melt into their angelic, vulnerable nature at bedtime.
He starts to cry, and I lift him out of his crib (okay, I’m lying- it’s a pack and play. But his actual crib is half assembled right next it. Fourth child problems, ya know? We are getting to it!). I bring him tenderly to my chest. His cheeks squish, and those little lips get so darn pudgy when he’s tired. He takes a deep, settled breath that makes me smile into the back of his neck. That’s the spot. He’s found it. You know the one. Right under your chin, tucked perfectly against your collarbone, face smashed against your heart beat, so that all you have to do is look down to plant a kiss on their forehead. That’s the spot. It was made for them. He always makes his way there, just like he did the way he was born.
I wrap my arms around him while he tucks his knees and arms under his tummy, and we sway a few steps until I make it to the rocking chair. I’ve messed up a bit by changing locations, so he tries again to get comfortable. The position we are in is not quite right, now that we’re sitting. He throws himself around until he completely takes over my lap. All 25lbs 32+ inches sprawled out on his back, arms up over his head, with one leg bent, the other hanging off the side, and his head resting on the recliner.
We rock back and forth until he sleeps deeper, and then I lay him back in the crib (pack and play just doesn’t sound right). He starts getting restless without my warmth, so I pat his back. It’s the mother’s touch: a little forceful at first, and then gradually more gentle until my hand is like a feather, lifted without notice. His eyelids start to droop around the same time that his chubby hands fumble the paci to his mouth. That’ll do it. His eyes close and I smile.
I’m kind of still just blown away over the fact of them being little and all mine. What a humbling reality- as a parent, my love is their whole world and their prominent compass. My hugs fix all the things. My words are the ones they retain. My attention is the one sought. I am the one who gets asked to go outside and play. Their owies need my bandaids and kisses. They make little gifts and pictures and lego sets for me, with heart notes attached. My bread is “the BEST,” and guess how much they love me? Quite a bit, if the flailing of their arms and legs could assume an actual measure. I tell them that my love makes several laps of that length for each of them. I just never want this to end. I know that they are ultimately God’s children, as we all are, and I am so thankful that He is the Master of Life, bestowing this amount of love in our hearts, of which I pray only grows in unison with each of us.
Before I head to bed myself, I stroke his back one more time. How is it that God made babies so precious? My gaze drops over his chunky thighs, pudgy cheeks, and too-big T shirt. While the heavy breathing whisks him into dreamland, I thank God for every second that I get to love them all.
Happy birthday bubba. 💙
