Sunday, June 2, 2013

A snapshot in time



Some moments are impossible to encapsulate in words, to perfectly frame in a limited language.  But some moments, however fleeting to ensnare on a page, are worth trying for.  Because they are that special, that precious, that intimate.  Moving on too quickly would be a transgression.

I arrived home from a tiresome meeting this evening hoping to catch my baby boy before his bedtime.  Upon entering the living room I found the babysitter on the couch with a novel, a sure sign that I was too late.  We made the traditional sitter-to-parent exchange of goods: she gave me a summary of the evening and reassured me that my son is well-behaved, adorable, and intelligent.  And I gave her a check.  All’s well that ends well.

After she pulled out I debated making dinner and crashing on the couch with Netflix.  But it wasn’t yet 8pm.  I wanted to peek in on James.  And peek I did, secretly hoping he hadn’t fallen asleep.  He was curled up in his crib with Steven Bear, binky, and a big blue rubber ball…babysitter indulgence I suppose.  He looked quite peaceful as I crossed the room and gazed on his sweet little bare feet and perfectly-shaped head.  (It is perfect, and nobody can tell me otherwise.)  He looked up at me and sighed a happy sigh.  Mommy is home.  The world is right. 

Mommy asked him questions quietly.  How was playtime?  How was supper?  What did you eat?  He nodded his head in all of the right places and uttered his traditional, “yeah.” (Which sounds more like “yoell” when spoken with an inserted binky.)  All the while still snuggled up into a ball…around the ball.

Would you like to rock James?”  James wasn’t sure he wanted to leave his ball, until Mommy kissed him goodnight and turned to leave.  Then rocking sounded like a good idea.  And so we rocked.  He snuggled into me and we rocked and rocked and rocked.  My independent 18 month boy, who is far too busy to sit still for seemingly anything these days, pressed his body against mine for fifteen glorious minutes as I whispered words of love to him.  His arm blindly reached around his head to find my face and his perfect little hand stroked my cheek.  I smelled his hair and prayed for him, for me, for us.  Prayers of inexpressible thankfulness.  Pleading prayers for continued health in his little body.  Tearful prayers for wisdom.  Oh God, grant me wisdom.

The day we brought James home from the hospital I was utterly overwhelmed as I considered the awesome responsibility of being his mother.  This tiny little angel didn’t deserve me.  I felt that way again tonight as his big, perfect, eyes gazed into mine.  I once heard a song that said something about how there’s no other love like a mother’s love for her child.  And I ignorantly dismissed it as silly.  My love for my husband should be a love like no other.  And, so it is in a way.  But, oh, how those words are true.  How foolish I was.  The love a mother has for her child is unlike any other love she has experienced.  It makes you keenly aware of how fragile your heart is.  It is terrifyingly rapturous.

As I placed my James back in his crib, sorely tempted to rock the entire night away, I kissed his satiny cheek and wiped the tears from my face.  Sleep well darling boy.  Mommy loves you.  So much that it hurts.  The sweetest of dreams.  May we never forget this moment.

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