Every now and again I have a moment of clarity. “Remember this,” I tell myself. And when it’s unaccompanied by pangs of guilt or failure over moments that I’ve already forgotten to remember, that’s when I’m inspired to write it down.
So I’m writing it down.
Babies, man.
I rocked Jasper to half-sleep just now, right before his midday nap. And instead of letting my mind wander towards things I need to do, things I need to want to do, or any combination therein, I look at my son. I feel him in my lap. I’m so proud of myself for staying in the moment that my brain immediately goes to places like wondering what kind of awards should I get for staying so in the moment- and how should I even dress for such a fancy event.
I come back to the moment, dammit.
After our books, after our songs, he quietly requests more “rock,” so I do. Rockin’ROCKin’Rockin’ROCKin’ in a chair given to me by a friend after the birth of my first kid. Soon I won’t rock any more toddlers and this one will join the legion of Big Kids who lay out outfits for school and read comics under the covers and mutter a distracted “…’night” to the room. So as long as Jasper asks for more “rock,” I will rock. (Sometimes we’re there for a bit. And I don’t even mind. Not even when my brain starts singing the chorus of 70s stadium rock anthems to the rhythm. Especially not even then.)
The way he thunks his head on my shoulder to settle in to our routine is a treasure. My little guy is a snuggler. He loves to be held against me, silently aware of the room. The two of us and no one else. Big sisters don’t need pretzel bags opened and cats don’t whine for food. (Or if they do, we pretend we don’t immediately hear them. Everyone survives.)
When he was a newborn, I would rock him wrapped in soft blankets (which covered soft sleepers which covered soft onesies). Now I feel his denim-covered bottom and thighs resting against my lap- covering his soft, squishy layer of diaper that’s decidedly “baby.” His hoodie also feels more Kid than I’m entirely comfortable with, but his hand touching mine is still chubby and soft. The back of his neck has yet to brave the elements.
And man, the way his eyelashes fan out over his still-rounded cheek as he- murmuring- protests sleep? Those eyelashes, seriously those eyelashes. Those eyes. His darkly lashed, heavily lidded, chocolate brown puppy eyes. It’s so unfair.
I gently ruffle his fine, shaggy hair (that, in all actuality, is probably overdue for a trim) and take in his scent; he doesn’t smell like a baby anymore. It’s now a blend of honey from his breakfast, dirt from his sprint through the backyard, and a trace of his Dad’s sandalwood aftershave lotion- proving that men can hug goodbye in the morning. (And they usually do it with a face nestled into the crook of a neck and a spin around the room to the Winnie the Pooh soundtrack.)
As he falls asleep in my lap, his Taffy giraffe gets shoved higher up on my arms, but sleepy fingers grab a corner of the material and gently work it back and forth in time to the squeaking, sucking sound of his pacifier. (Which I should take away. I should take it away. He’s my baby and he deserves all the comfort in the world. I’m not going to take it away.)
I put him down in his crib and hand him his “friends” in the order he likes: red puppy next to his head, Taffy in his arms, baby doll sitting up beside him. (She probably has work to do during nap time, too.)
“You want your ducks on today, pal?”
He grunts an assent- way more like a grownup man than I care for- but as soon as I wind up the mobile that my Mom and Dad wound up over my crib some 35 years ago, he giggles his helium-escaping laugh like he did as a baby.
I tell him that I love him. He smiles; he knows.
I don’t want to forget this. I won’t forget this.
I probably already forgot half of it in the attempt to write down how I couldn’t possibly ever forget this.
It doesn’t change a thing.
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