In the Still of the Night

Day 12 of the "Blog Every Day in May" challenge:

"What do you miss?"

It's 2:20 a.m. on a Tuesday night as I sit in the dark cool nursery, wrapped in a fleece blanket, snuggling a tired and scared baby boy and write this post in my head.  He had a nightmare, I think.  Another one.  They're getting more and more frequent.  He wakes up scared and confused and disoriented.  Sometimes he doesn't even open his eyes, he just sits up in his crib and screams.  When I open the door, he can sense my presence and for a minute, he gets absolutely hysterical.  He reaches for me, grasping the air, grabbing handfuls of my shirt, my hair, my necklace.  He pulls himself into my chest as hard as he can and buries his face in my neck.  Sometimes the sobbing stops instantly.  Sometimes it takes a few deep breaths, maybe some bouncing, sometimes he needs to hear my voice as I hold him tight and whisper "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" into his ear.  He calms.  It breaks my heart to think that he was scared and alone in the dark for even just a few minutes.  But I'm here now.  I'm all he needs.  I'm his touchstone, his safe haven, his mama.  I exist to make it all better.  In a few years I'll be ridding his closet of monsters and battling the boogie man that lives under his bed.  But for now, all he needs is me.  My touch, my warmth, my voice.  I have mama magic.

I move to the rocking chair and wrap the two of us in a soft warm blanket.  He lays his head in the crook of my arm and looks up at me, making sure I'm still there.  It's dark, but I can just make out the features of his face by the soft glow of the nightlight.  I smile and give him a soft warm kiss on his cool forehead.  He closes his eyes and buries his face in my neck.  I take a deep breath and take in his scent as he takes in mine.  We rock, our bodies pressed as close together as we can get so we can feel each other's heartbeat.  He fits so perfectly against me, curled in all the right places, like two perfectly matched puzzle pieces.  We were made for each other.  And we rock.  I notice that he's getting longer every day and his feet now stick off my lap beyond my knees. His little arms wrap up around my neck and my arms stretch all the way around him to envelope him, like a mommy octopus.  And we rock.  Back  and forth in the moonlight.  Listening to the sound of the rain from his white noise machine and taking in the stillness of the room.  Everyone else in the house is fast asleep, it's just us awake.  We're the only people in the whole world.  And we rock.  After a few minutes he relaxes and gently, gradually lets go.  I loosen my embrace around him and let him slide down into my arms into his usual cradle position.  His feet stop moving, his hands unclench and he starts snoring ever so slightly.  And we rock.  

As gently and nimbly as I can, I get him moved to his crib and in his favorite sleeping position, face down, butt up, arms and legs curled in tight.  I pat him on the back a few times and say a prayer in my mind over his sleeping body.  I sneak out of the room and back into my own bed.  My sheets are cool, but I can still feel the warm spot on my chest where his cheek was resting a few minutes ago.  I wrap the blankets around me and try to drift off to sleep for the third time this night.  We'll probably do this all again in an hour or two.  It's going to be a long night, followed by an early morning.

I miss sleep.  But in the meantime, I'm not missing a moment.