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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