Updated: July 30, 2023
Originally Published: August 21, 2016
In certain moments, the thought of waking you felt overwhelming. I longed for just a few extra minutes with my coffee. Getting you to sleep was a challenge; I would pat your diapered bottom in specific rhythms, carefully navigate the nursery floor to avoid those squeaky floorboards, and hope for the best.
You were always specific about your preferences — no tags on clothes, a peculiar need to have your stuffed bat resting upside down in your shoe at nap time because “that’s how they sleep,” no mushy foods on your plate, and always, always, a makeshift hat, be it a pair of your sister’s leggings, a butterfly net, my nursing pads, or a baseball cap worn inside out.
Your energy was unmistakable. It was abundant, both in joy and frustration, making the choice to wake you a true dilemma. When upset, your ears would turn a warning crimson; fists clenched tight, your gaze could rival a scene from a thriller. But when joy struck, your squeal could halt traffic blocks away. You were always in motion, from your first steps at just nine months to the fidgeting with your cell phone that drives your sister mad.
I cherished our nighttime rituals, the gentle lather of Johnson’s shampoo for dog ears and reading Guess How Much I Love You in the glider. Those footie pajamas snuggled in your fire engine sheets were a delight. Just last week, as we set up a bedroom in the basement for your return home from college, I was moved to tears when you placed the nursery poem I used to recite at bedtime on top of your dresser. I thought you had outgrown it, but perhaps I’m still learning as your mother; you are my first child and my only son.
You might label me a “stalker,” but I’ve watched you sleep at every stage of your life. As an infant, I ensured your chest rose and fell, as a toddler, I marveled at your dreams of jungle adventures, and even in elementary school, I would gently brush your unruly hair from your face. In middle school, I respected your need for privacy, but now I find myself pausing outside your door at night, picturing you at peace, wishing I could share in your dreams.
Each day with you required my utmost mental energy. Your perspective on the world was uniquely your own. In kindergarten, your intense dedication to being a T-Rex on the playground earned you lunch detention. At six, you were determined to become a “scorpion artist,” and your insistence that Mr. Potato Head needed a hole in his backside for his nose still baffles me. You learned through art and hands-on experiences, and I had to educate your teachers on how to support your learning style. You were challenging yet a joy, and I needed to recharge each day to see the world through your eyes. I looked forward to our nightly ritual tango followed by “Hush, Little Baby” at 7 p.m.
This morning, I suspect you don’t require much from me anymore. I’ve shared all I can, and my love for you exceeds what I ever thought possible. The car is packed for your college journey, and you’re ready. In the early hours of this morning, when I once longed for sleep between feedings, I find myself wide awake. Part of me yearns to sneak downstairs and gently wake you for one last poem, another bedtime story, or to witness your dreams alongside you. Yet, I know that once I do, it will signal the start of your new life, the one I’ve always envisioned for you. So, for just a little while longer, as you embark on your journey, I will whisper this… Please, don’t wake the baby.
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Summary
This reflective piece captures a mother’s journey through the early years of her son’s life, detailing the challenges and joys of parenting. It emphasizes the unique personality and energetic nature of her child while highlighting the bond they share through bedtime rituals and daily experiences. As the mother prepares to send her son off to college, she grapples with the bittersweet transition and cherishes the memories they’ve created together.
Keyphrase: parenting reflections
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