Over the weekend I stopped at the door to my little boy’s room. I have no idea why, and I can no longer recall if it was Saturday or Sunday. What I do recall is being taken back in time, vividly and quickly.
Rocking him through naps a little over a year ago while watching Mad Men on my phone. Fumbling through 2 a.m. nursing sessions, bowled over by the peace on my son’s face. Earning my Nursery Ninja badge by changing the batteries in the swing as he slept in it. Several times. Sitting by the crib, patting his chest, teaching him that it is a safe and happy place to sleep, my arm numb from being over the rail for so long. Endless diaper changes and swaddlings and book readings. Crying as he cried because of the worst diaper rash in world history, hoping he understood that I had to hurt him to help him.
People who know me well will be shocked that I did not cry during this episode. This was not a sentimental event, but a river-deep revelation: This is where I’ve spent my best and worst moments, in this 10 x 10 room filled with baby smell and elephants and love.
As suddenly as the wave had picked me up, it let me go. I moved on to the day’s next task, safely returned from the my trip back in time.
Mama-Come-Lately 
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