The Last Baby
I read a mommy-blog years ago that lovingly tried to encourage young moms stuck in the trenches of wrangling toddlers to shake off the frustrations of daily (or hourly 
) annoyances of such a feat as rearing human animals into acceptable and productive citizens of society by imploring us to live in and embrace the tiny blissful moments, no matter how sparse they seem throughout the day, because, as the writer said:
“One day you’ll put them down for the last time, and never pick them up again. One day you’ll sing your last lullaby or read your last bedtime story, and they’ll never ask again.”
And the cruelty in that truth is hidden in the illusion that we’ll know it’s the last time when it happens. When in reality, we will not.
Weeks or months may go by before we realize “we don’t rock to sleep or sing at bedtime anymore.” And what felt like a momentary reprieve from daily, routinely duty, was actually a heart-breaking “last” that snuck by completely under our well-adapted mommy radar.
I’ve kept this thought in my mind for years now, and I often wonder “was this the last time?” when I go through daily life with my kids.
I have rocked Levi to sleep for his nap and bedtime every day for almost three years. If I count the first year that he took two naps a day and at bedtime at night… that’d probably be well over a thousand rocking sessions.
The next two years, one nap a day and bed time. Another, 1,500 rocking sessions.
For almost three years, I’ve undoubtedly rocked that child to sleep almost 3,000 times.
However monotonous it sounds, the truth is rocking this child healed my heart in so many ways after Chad died. There were many days that I didn’t know what to do to move forward, but there was one thing I always knew how to do, and that was take care of this baby.
Some days, I honestly couldn’t wait to snuggle him in the quiet of his bedroom and let the pain and hurt and bitterness and loneliness silently run down my cheeks as he slept peacefully against my chest. A healing release induced by the purest embrace of love as I clung to the last piece of my husband left on this earth.
And tonight, I did what I always do. I wrapped him in his snuggly blanket, sat him on my lap, pressed his cheek to my chest, and began to rock.
I could feel him stretching against his blanket, trying to get more comfortable. He used to just melt into me, but bigger bodies demand more room, and lately he has seemed less comfortable than he used to be.
I was rocking away with my eyes closed, listening to the whooshing of his sound machine when I felt a tiny hand against my cheek. I opened my eyes and looked down to the most beautiful face peering up at me; the glow of his nightlight reflecting an ocean of deep blue in his eyes.
“Mom… your face etiful.” [That’s beautiful in Levi-speak] “Me lay in my new big bed now.”
The purest compliment, followed by the gentlest request.
My heart burst into a thousand pieces; pieces of love, with shards of sadness scattered throughout. But I smiled, carried him to his bed, ruffled his bouncy blonde curls and whispered, “I love you, Levi. Goodnight, Buddy.”
“Vove vu, Mom. See you ‘mornin. Nigh, nigh.”
I quietly closed his door behind me, wondering if I’ll ever rock him to sleep again.
The days are long, but the years are fleeting.
Three years; 3,000 moments of rocking this child to sleep and you’d think I’d be ready to lay his sleeping body down for the last time. But arduous repetition makes you realize that love and connection is often built in the laboring for one another.
I doubt he’ll remember our rocking days 10 years from now, and I’m sure he wouldn’t even admit it if he does, but I’m praying that even though our routine is changing, our bond never does. I love you, Levi James.
