As I glance to my right, I notice her eyes are shut tight. Leaning in gently, I confirm that her normally vibrant and talkative face has softened into a peaceful slumber. Sleep must have crept in quietly during the movie, wrapping around her like a comforting blanket, coaxing her eyelids to close and inviting her to explore the sweet dreams within her imagination.
A wave of warmth fills my chest as I prepare for the task ahead. Silently, I rise from my corner of the couch, shift the coffee table aside, and assess my approach. This time, she has brought along her beloved Minions blanket and her oversized blue bunny, so I place Bunny in front of her, tuck the blanket snugly around her, and gather all three of them into my arms.
With my bare feet searching for any obstacles her brother may have left behind, I navigate the dim basement, careful not to disturb her. Holding her close, I ascend the 17 stairs, balancing 50 pounds of child, favorite toy, and fluffy blanket. The weight itself is manageable; my only concern is ensuring her safety from any doorjambs along the way.
Moments like these are fleeting. I realize I won’t always be the one she turns to for comfort, the one she shares her dreams with, or the one she wants by her side during movies. As she grows, these intimate aspects of motherhood will gradually fade.
Transitioning from the soft stair carpeting to the cool hardwood of the main hallway, I instinctively lean over to shield her face from the bright overhead light. I can hear my partner typing away, with ESPN crackling in the background, so I whisper “shhh” near her ears to keep her from waking and turn the corner to tackle our next flight of stairs. I catch a glimpse of my son in the office, engrossed in the flashing images on the screen, seemingly more interested in the game than in my movements. Perhaps he’s intentionally ignoring me to delay bedtime for just a bit longer.
It’s sometimes difficult to decipher his intentions. He’s my oldest, smart and evolving, caught between childhood and the desire to be grown-up, but still able to flash that charming smile that once melted my heart when he had barely any teeth. Right now, his focus is laser-sharp on the screen, and I gently shift my attention back to my sleeping bundle. The sounds and lights around us cause her to stir slightly, so I bounce her gently against my chest, willing her to stay asleep. Fortunately, she does.
With my elbow, I click off the upstairs light, and we continue our ascent. Each of the remaining 15 steps feels effortless; I know I can manage this. There’s no need to seek assistance or doubt my ability to reach the top safely. Since becoming a mother, I have faced far more daunting challenges, and I am well aware that the true trials are still ahead. I am determined not to drop her; I hold on with all my strength.
Upon entering her room—despite her earlier claims that it was tidy—I find it in disarray. I navigate through toys and artwork until I reach her unmade bed. Using my knee, I push the blankets aside enough to lay her down in her favorite spot. I make slight adjustments to her legs, carefully untangling the sheets to tuck her in snugly. Bunny is placed to her right, the Minion blanket to her left, and the bedding is pulled up to her chin. Looking down at her, I feel a pang of loss, as if I’ve misplaced my favorite blanket. The warmth remains, but the weight I long for is absent.
I am acutely aware that there will be only a limited number of times I can carry her like this. I do not know how long she will remain my little girl or when she will outgrow my arms. I dread the moment I’ll realize she no longer needs me in this way; it will pass without my noticing, and I cannot bear the thought. Therefore, I cherish the weight she grants me for as long as she permits.
Inhaling her scent of maple and markers, I commit it to memory, reinforcing my belief in my ability to lift her whenever she calls for me, ensuring she arrives safely where she needs to be.
A soft huff interrupts the silence as she shifts and curls up on her side before settling again. I smooth the covers one last time, kiss her forehead, and quietly retreat from her room, whispering a heartfelt “I love you” in hopes of a night filled with sweet dreams.
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In summary, the experience of carrying my children while they sleep is a precious reminder of the fleeting nature of these moments. As they grow, I cherish every opportunity to hold them, knowing that these simple acts of love are temporary yet profoundly meaningful.
Keyphrase: The Delight of Carrying My Sleepy Children
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