Ah, he was having a hard time going down for a nap this afternoon. A really hard time. He was singing, he was sqwaking, he was crying, he was screaming, he was rolling around in his crib. By all accounts, not tired.
Except that he was.
One or the other of us had gone back in his room at least five times to soothe, quite and re-pacifier our sweet 6 month old.
And still, he would not sleep.
Which is not the norm.
Oliver is fairly proficient at getting himself to sleep.
Except for when he is not.
And this afternoon, he was not.
And so, after 30 minutes of letting him try on his own, I bent over his crib and swept him up into my arms. I rotated him in towards me, and together we sat down in our rocker. And we rocked. And in less than 30 seconds, his eyes rolled back, his breathing slowed, and his tiny mouth worked his paci at a calm and steady rate. He was out. And we rocked. And rocked. And rocked.
And I felt such a surge of affection rushing out of my chest and pouring all over his tiny frame.
This is my deepest privilege and my greatest honor.
He is my joy, and the delight of my heart.
Ah, but sometimes it feels like an inconvenience. Like an interruption. And I sigh as I walk into his room, resigning myself to the loss of MY time.
But today, I remembered that there is a finite number of times he will curl his body around mine and let himself drift into sleep.
And today I remembered that rocking my tiny son in my arms, causing him to rest, is a privilege and an honor. And that I am the only woman in his life who will give that gift to him.