A Late Winter Nap

The light softly dimples the wall as I sit and rock you in my arms.

It is quiet. Which is so, so rare these days.

Finding quiet moments alone, let alone with my youngest, are so few and far between that I can feel the swelling of my heart as I revel in the joy of this special moment while simultaneously sensing a rising tide of panic about to sweep over me, knowing that at any moment, the front door will be thrown open and this quiet moment left shattered.

But for now, it is quiet. And you are asleep.

Your soft, light blonde hair swirls around your ear and I am noticing how it curls slightly at the ends now that your hair is starting to grow and fill out.

Your hands, now still, after pinching and grabbing at my chest while you nursed yourself to sleep, are one of my absolute favorite parts of this phase. They are chubby, with indents where your knuckles would be.

Your cheeks have a hint of rosy to them as you lie warmly in my arms and I cannot help but run my finger over your cheek and into your hair, stirring you slightly. But you just nestle into my arms a bit more and continue sleeping.

This. This is the type of moment I longed for, dreamt of and waited for. Long before I held you or knew you.

This moment and many others like it, will be the rose colored glasses I wear when I’m eighty and look at mothers with little ones with that fondness and longing that I often see in their eyes.

Even the ones that can relate to my own experiences with colicky babies and really hard seasons of motherhood can’t help but be stirred by memories of sweet, sleeping babies snuggled in their arms.

And because I now see glimpses of myself in them as I’ve watched my older two children leave this stage far behind, I hold you dearly.

I hold you knowing that one day I won’t know the closeness of you as well as I do now. Knowing that one day it really will all change and that when it does, it somehow will have gone by in the blink of an eye, even though I swore it never could.

Having a third baby has given me something I hadn’t had before, which is the ability to see past the baby and toddler phase. I have a view of the future with my oldest turning eight this year.

From the moment he was born until now I’ve had some really hard seasons. And even with all of those long and hard days, I still can’t believe how quickly time has gone by.

You stir some more and I’m recognizing that you are waking up. I didn’t intend for you to nap in my arms but here we are and I am grateful for it. Here’s that perspective again.

You blink a little through your beautiful, long eyelashes. You wiggle a little and then straighten your arms and legs to stretch, I move to give you room. Then you relax and curl back into my arms, a little smile on your face. Once you open your eyes you find mine and smile so that your teeth are showing, all two and a half of them.

I’m smiling too. I sit you up and we keep smiling at each other. The happiest baby I’ve ever known. A true blessing.

Moments later we hear the front door thrown up. Three sets of footsteps barrel in, shoes are tossed off, coats dropped on the floor. I hear the regular sounds of boys that came in for snacks. Jack wants mommy. Everett is still in character from playing “army” outside.

You look towards the commotion with a giant grin and want to wiggle out of my arms to join them.

And just like that you are inching your way towards the next phase.

As you crawl away from me you stop and look back to make sure I’m right behind you.

And with confirmation that I’m following you, you squeal with glee and crawl a little faster towards the noise in the kitchen.

I’m filled with gratitude for moments like these. For they fill my cup, now and for the future. Someday I’ll reach into my memory bank and remember a late winter afternoon when soft light danced through the window as I held my daughter, my last baby, while she slept.

When my arms have long since been needed for holding my children, I hope I remember the weight of them in my arms.

I hope I remember the softness of their hair curling around their ears, the fullness of their rosy cheeks, the grip of their chubby fingers on my shirt, holding onto me even while they sleep.

I hope to always remember toothless grins, the noise from a kitchen overtaken by hungry children and a baby, crawling as fast as she can, towards those voices.

I hope I store all of these moments collectively in my heart and allow them to sweep over me when I need them. Like a jar that cracks itself open and seeks to bring me comfort as these memories from long ago soothe me.

I hope I never, ever forget this season of motherhood. This all-consuming, beautiful, busy, blessed season.