The lamp by which Goodnight Moon is read. And read. And read.
Yesterday I was chatting with my dentist about how great it is that babies are snuggly and how fun it is to love on them. My tooth-driller, who is 50ish, I think, said when he was a kid, he thought it was weird that his dad would smother him with hugs and kisses. But of course he completely understood what was up with that once he had kids of his own.
It reminded me of how, when Baboo was a newborn, he would fall asleep on our chests, a compact bundle of peaceful trust. His breathing was soft and sweet and I loved nothing better than tuning in to hear and feel it. His 3 a.m. feedings were drowsy, rocking affairs that made me feel gratifyingly maternal. I’d change his diaper in the near-dark, stealthily feed him and put him back down already half-asleep.
These days, all his sleeping happens in a crib, and he’s often restless as he’s winding down. He takes his bottles facing outwards on my lap, one foot banging on whatever he can reach with it. He snakes out of my arms as soon as he’s done, because CRAWLING! PLACES TO GO! THINGS TO GRAB!
He wakes up pointing to the pictures on his walls, reaching for the blinds, wanting to talk about everything. But during the morning’s first bottle, I still get a few minutes of peaceful, snuggly rocking.
I’ll take what I can get.
Mama-Come-Lately 