In certain moments, I found myself reluctant to rouse you from slumber. All I craved was a bit more time with my coffee. You were a challenge to settle down initially, requiring a specific routine, like gentle pats on your diapered bottom in groups of seven, interspersed with pauses, all while avoiding the creaky floorboards as I stealthily exited the nursery.
You have always had your quirks — no tags in your clothing, a preference for resting your stuffed bat upside down in your shoe during naps because “that is how they sleep,” a disdain for anything mushy on your plate, and an ever-present makeshift hat, whether it be your sister’s leggings, a butterfly net, my nursing breast pads, or a baseball cap worn inside out.
Your boundless energy was unmistakable, manifesting in both delightful and challenging ways. When upset, your ears turned a fierce shade of red, serving as a warning signal. Clenched fists and a determined gaze evoked memories of Jack Nicholson’s most memorable looks. Conversely, your joyful squeals could halt traffic six blocks away. From your first steps at nine months to the incessant fidgeting with your phone that drives your sister up the wall, you never seemed to pause.
I cherished our nighttime routines, from creating dog ears with Johnson’s shampoo to reading “Guess How Much I Love You” while seated in the glider chair. And, of course, the footie pajamas snuggled within your fire engine sheets. Just last week, as we prepared a bedroom in the basement for your return, I was moved to tears when I saw you placed the poem from your nursery, which I always recited at bedtime, on top of your dresser for safekeeping. I thought you had moved on from it. Yet, here I am, still learning; you are my first child and only son.
You might accuse me of being overly attentive, but I’ve watched you sleep since infancy, ensuring your chest rose and fell. I observed you as a toddler, dreaming as if you were Mowgli racing after Baloo. In elementary school, I would gently remove the book and flashlight from your grasp, brushing your unruly hair away from your eyes. In middle school, I respected your need for privacy, only stealing a glance for a fleeting moment. Now, I stand outside your door each night, hand resting softly against it, envisioning you in peaceful slumber. I wish I could witness your dreams alongside you.
Each day with you required me to recharge fully. Your perspective on the world has always been unique. In kindergarten, your dedication to portraying a T-Rex on the playground resulted in lunch detention. At age six, you were determined to be a “scorpion artist,” insisting that Mr. Potato Head required a hole in his backside for his nose — a mystery to this day. Your learning was tactile and artistic; you approached education differently. I often found myself teaching your teachers how to engage with you. Despite the challenges, you were a delight to me. I needed to be mentally prepared each day to understand your viewpoint. I welcomed the end of each day with our cherished ritual, a lively dance followed by “Hush, Little Baby” at 7 p.m.
This morning, I sense you need little from me. I have imparted what I could. My love for you surpasses what I once thought possible. The car is packed for your college journey, and you are ready. In the early hours, when I used to yearn for sleep between feedings, I find myself wide awake. Part of me longs to tiptoe downstairs to gently wake you, to recite that poem one last time, read another Golden Book, or share in your dreams. Yet, I understand that my actions signal a significant transition. So today, for reasons both poignant and bittersweet, I will whisper this: Please, don’t wake the baby.
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In summary, this piece reflects the emotional journey of parenting, capturing the challenges and joys of raising a unique child. It emphasizes the importance of understanding and adapting to a child’s distinct world while cherishing memories and routines.
Keyphrase: Parenting Reflections
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