My belly had grown and stretched to make room for you. I simply couldn’t wait to see your little face. I sat in your nursery, which was nearly complete, and whispered all the thoughts, fears, and feelings that filled my mind. You kicked in response as if to remind me we were in this together. And we rocked.
Everyone told me that babies sleep a lot. But not you. It was as if you didn’t want to miss one moment of this big, beautiful life. I was to my bones tired. You refused to sleep. We continued this merry-go-round where I sang lullabies, and you opened your eyes wider. And we rocked.
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You dragged book after book to me. I pulled you onto my lap, we snuggled up and read. You swiped your fingers across the textured pages. I watched you fall in love with reading. And we rocked.
We both landed in the glider in a heap of exhaustion. You, from a meltdown in the grocery store, the car, and now at home. Me, from navigating said epic meltdown. Silence filled the room other than the occasional stuttering breath, evidence of your previous screaming. I wrapped my arms around you, you snuggled in closer. And we rocked.
Your legs dangled off the chair serving as a tangible reminder of just how much you have grown. I breathed you in, the familiar smell of strawberry-scented shampoo filling my nose. I took a moment to soak it in. Knowing that the days of crawling into my lap and letting me hold you had become few and far between. And we rocked.
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There will come a day when the glider sits in the corner of the room, unused. Years will pass and all those hours and moments will be but a memory. Perhaps one day you will return to it with a baby of your own. You will gather that little one in your arms. The rhythmic movement of the chair bringing you back to a time when you were the one safely tucked into warm, loving arms. Tears will prick your eyes as gratitude fills your heart. You will breathe that baby in, stare at that tiny face. And rock.
Originally published on the author’s Facebook page