Parenting
Some mornings, I found myself reluctant to wake you. I craved just a few extra moments with my coffee. Getting you to sleep was a challenge; it required a delicate routine of seven gentle pats on your diapered bottom, timed pauses, and stealthy retreats to avoid those creaky floorboards.
You’ve always had your quirks — tags in clothes were unacceptable, your stuffed bat had to be placed upside down in your shoe at nap time “because that’s how they sleep,” no mushy foods could touch your plate, and you insisted on wearing a makeshift hat. Whether it was your sister’s leggings, a butterfly net, my nursing pads, or an inside-out baseball cap, you always had a headpiece on.
Your vibrant energy was hard to miss, both in joy and frustration. When you were angry, your ears turned a fierce shade of red like a warning light. Your fists would clench, and your gaze would mirror Jack Nicholson’s most intense expressions. In moments of happiness, your squeal could echo for blocks, drawing attention from everywhere. You were always on the move — from your first steps at nine months to the way you still fidget today, much to your sister’s annoyance.
I cherished our nightly traditions — the dog ears with Johnson’s shampoo and reading Guess How Much I Love You in the glider, all while you snuggled into your fire engine bed sheets in those adorable footie pajamas. Just last week, while setting up a bedroom in the basement for your return, I was touched to find the nursery poem I used to recite at bedtime placed atop your dresser. I thought you had outgrown it, but what do I really know? You are my first child and my only son; I’m still figuring things out.
You may call me a stalker, but I can’t help but watch you sleep. As an infant, I ensured your chest rose and fell steadily. As a toddler, I watched you twitch, dreaming of adventures like Mowgli with Baloo. In elementary school, I’d quietly brush the wild strands of hair from your face after removing your book and flashlight. In middle school, I respected your need for privacy, only peeking in briefly. Each night, I pause outside your door, hand resting gently against it, imagining you at peace. I wish I could share those dreams with you.
Every day with you required a different mindset; you view the world through a unique lens. In kindergarten, you got lunch detention for being too invested in your T-Rex role on the playground. By age six, you were determined to become a “scorpion artist” and insisted that Mr. Potato Head should have a hole in his rear for his nose — to this day, I still don’t understand that logic. Your learning style was hands-on and artistic. I had to guide your teachers on how to reach you. You were both a challenge and a treasure, and I needed to be mentally prepared each day to see the world as you do. By the end of each day, I relished our winding down with our little dance, followed by “Hush, Little Baby” at the stroke of seven.
This morning, I sense you don’t need anything from me. I’ve imparted all I could teach you. My love for you has exceeded my wildest expectations. The car is loaded for college, and you’re all set. In the early hours when I used to yearn for sleep between feedings, I find myself wide awake now. Part of me wants to rush downstairs and gently nudge you awake to recite that poem once more, to read another Golden Book, or to watch your dreams alongside you. Yet, I know that once I do, the time will come to let you go. So, for these fleeting moments before you embark on the life I’ve always envisioned for you, I will whisper this… please, don’t wake the baby.