There were moments when waking you felt like a daunting task. I craved just a few more sips of my coffee, relishing the silence before the day began. Getting you to sleep was never a straightforward endeavor; it often took a carefully calculated series of pats on your diapered bottom, performed in groups of seven with pauses between each, all while tiptoeing out of the nursery to avoid the creaky floorboards.
You’ve always had your quirks — no tags in your clothes, the peculiar need to place your stuffed bat upside down in your shoe at nap time because “that’s how they sleep,” and an aversion to anything mushy on your plate. You’d wear anything as a makeshift hat, whether it was your sister’s leggings, a butterfly net, my nursing pads, or an inside-out baseball cap.
Your vibrant energy was unmistakable, both in moments of joy and frustration, making the choice to wake you all the more challenging. When upset, your ears would flush crimson, fists clenching, and your gaze could rival a fierce Jack Nicholson stare. Conversely, your laughter could halt traffic six blocks away. From your first steps at nine months to the fidgeting that still drives your sister crazy today, you were always in motion.
I cherished our nighttime rituals — the playful dog ears with Johnson’s shampoo and the tender moments reading “Guess How Much I Love You” in the glider. Those cozy footie pajamas against your fire engine sheets were a sight to behold. Just last week, as we set up a new bedroom space in the basement for your return, tears welled in my eyes when you placed that nursery poem I used to recite on your dresser. I thought you’d outgrown it, but what do I know? You’re my first child and my only son, and I’m still learning daily.
Call it what you will, but I’ve always watched you sleep. As an infant, I made sure your little chest rose and fell. As a toddler, I watched you twitch, chasing imaginary friends in dreams. In elementary school, I would gently remove books and flashlights from your hands, brushing unruly hair from your eyes. I even paused outside your door in middle school, giving you the privacy you deserved. Every night, I picture you at peace, wishing I could share in your dreams without disturbing them.
Each morning demanded a mental preparation to embrace your unique perspective on the world. You’ve always seen things differently. In kindergarten, you spent lunch detention fully engrossed in your T-Rex role on the playground. At six, you were determined to be a “scorpion artist,” insisting that Mr. Potato Head required a hole for his nose. I still don’t quite understand that one. You thrived through hands-on learning and your artistic expressions. Teaching you often meant guiding your teachers on how to connect with your creativity. You were challenging yet delightful, requiring me to be mentally prepared each day, especially during our calming evening ritual of a tango dance and a lullaby at 7 p.m.
This morning, I sense you don’t need much from me anymore. I’ve shared all I can, and my love for you surpasses anything I ever imagined. The car is packed for your college journey, and you’re ready to embark on this new chapter. In the stillness of these early hours, once filled with longing for sleep during your nursing sessions, I find myself wide awake. Part of me wants to rush downstairs to gently jostle you awake for one last recitation of that cherished poem or to read another Golden Book together, while the other part knows that soon, it will be time to let go. So, for now, and just a little while longer, I’ll whisper softly… please, don’t wake the baby.
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In summary, parenting is a journey filled with unique challenges and joys, characterized by the quiet moments we hold dear. As we prepare to let our children spread their wings, it becomes essential to cherish the memories we created.
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