My hands are wrist high with soapy water. Exhausted, I start to wash the final load of bottles for the day. The house is quiet as we clean up the last few parts of our day before heading up to bed. I shift my weight and stretch my back. It’s been a busy day of activity and I am tired.
Your cry cuts through the sound of running water.
“Logan?” I ask your dad as he pauses by the video monitor.
You don’t wake often so we stop and watch you for a few seconds, wondering why you’ve woken, as your cries get louder. We both turn to go upstairs, but I move faster and trot up the stairs, creeping quietly into your dark nursery where your cries have pierced the silence.
Mommmmmmma!!!! You scream out, arms raised and I gently scoop you up, wrapping you in my arms the way a toddler would a teddy bear.
You exhale a gigantic sigh and your body goes limp against my chest. Your cries stop and you nuzzle into my neck as you breathe heavily, your arms wrapping against mine.
Shhhhshhhhshhhhh. I whisper quietly into your hair, stroking your back and feeling the weight of your body pressing into mine. I make my way to the rocker and sink into the plush seat, still holding onto you tightly and feel your tiny dimpled hands reach up into my hair, now in a mangled pony and your little fingers begin to twirl my flyaway’s.
We begin to rock.
You whimper a gentle moan of comfort and I instantly know how safe you feel here. I am your momma. Your safe place. Your calming force. I feel you get heavier and I savor this moment.
You, my sweet boy, don’t need momma like this often. You are a good sleeper and resist the temptation to pause during the day to cuddle. But here you lie in my arms and I breathe you in. It was bath night and you smell of lavender and baby shampoo. You are warm, just like your daddy, always running hot. Your fingers continue to play with my hair as I kiss your sweet little head. I marvel at how perfectly you seem to fit into my shoulder. It’s almost as if there’s a puzzle there and you are my missing piece.
A few feet away I hear your sister stirring in her crib, her hands fumbling to find the nearest pacifier and she goes quiet again as she drifts back to sleep.
I feel your chest moving up and down, breathing in my presence and slowly your fingers stop twirling and your arm drops limply on my arm. You are asleep and while I know I should move you back to your crib and go finish the dishes, I stay a little longer.
I want to memorize this moment. I want to memorize how you feel in my arms, how delicate you smell. As I press my lips into your hair, I want to always remember how big, yet tiny you feel in my arms. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to remember what it felt like to be holding 4 pound 11 ounce you in my arms 49 weeks ago. It’s a blurry memory and I panic as I fear this moment becoming a distant moment too.
Oh sweet boy, you are my joy. Your smile reaches every part of your face and you continue to amaze me every day. I continue to run my hand over your back and wonder how long you’ll let me snuggle you. I’ve seen how fast this year has gone and I don’t want to take a moment for granted. These are the times we prayed for years to experience and now they are here and I feel like they are going too fast.
You flip your head and press your other cheek against my skin and begin to blow the tiniest spit bubbles and I smile at the noise. You are just like your momma, I’ve been told I blow spit bubbles too.
Thank you Jesus. I pray silently, feeling as if I am in a holy moment. After years of wondering if I would ever be a mom, this moment is sacred. I squeeze my eyes tightly as I remember the shots, the appointments, the phone calls containing bad news, the negative pregnancy tests, the positive pregnancy tests, the bleeding, the aching, the sorrow. I remember wanting to give up, but the thought of never having this was too big a risk. We pressed on and nearly a decade later, here we rock. Oh sweet boy, you and your twin sister are my miracles.
I hear your dad downstairs quietly banging around, unloading the dishwasher, and I know he is smiling, knowing I am getting these precious snuggles, snuggles we both savor and fight over, knowing how prized they are.
We continue to rock and I stroke your fingers, marveling at how big they have become over the months.
Who will you become? Your adventurous spirit has me nearly certain you will keep me on my toes all the time. Your curiosity will spark inevitable trouble and I know you will do big things in your life. I hope you always make time for me. I pray you never tire of talking to me, sharing your day with me, letting me hug you tightly and continue to smile at my silly dance moves. I pray the woman you fall in love with someday loves Jesus and our family, and I pray that I never have to worry about whether you know how loved, special, unique, and cared for you are.
A tear slips down my cheek and blends into your tiny blonde hairs. You are so little. You are so big. You are my miracle.
We rock on.
These are the moments worth more than gold. This is as good as it gets on this side of heaven.
So we stay here longer and rock.
This is my dream come true.
2 thoughts on “we rock.”
Beautifully written! Thank you! Your sweet words express exactly how I feel towards my little miracle who is just 5 months old. After years of waiting and many many tears while trying, I too look at these types of moments as sacred. Thank you for sharing.
This is beautiful and exactly why I still rock my 2 1/2 year old to sleep. It won’t last forever and I know that. My boy was like yours when he was smaller and always on the go but nowadays he will just sit with me and let me hold and snuggle him and I love it to pieces!!