Parenting in the Quiet Hours
There were days when I hesitated to wake you, longing for just a few more moments with my coffee in hand. Getting you to sleep was always a challenge; it required a precise rhythm of pats on your diapered backside—seven pats with deliberate breaks in between, and I had to navigate the nursery floor with utmost care to avoid the creaky boards.
You always had your quirks—no tags in your clothes, a peculiar habit of resting your stuffed bat upside down in your shoe at nap time because “that’s how they sleep,” an aversion to anything mushy on your plate, and the constant presence of a makeshift hat, be it your sister’s leggings, a butterfly net, my nursing pads, or a baseball cap worn inside out.
Your energy was unmistakable—abundant, both in joyful moments and in tantrums. When you were upset, your ears would flush a bright red, a clear warning sign. Your fists would clench, and you’d cast a look that could rival Jack Nicholson’s best. But when you were happy, your squeal could stop traffic six blocks away. You never seemed to slow down, from the moment you took your first steps at nine months to your current fidgeting with your phone that drives your sister up the wall.
I cherished our nighttime rituals, from those dog-eared pages of Guess How Much I Love You read in the glider to the feel of your footie pajamas snuggled against your fire engine sheets. Just last week, while setting up a cozy space for you in the basement for your return, I was moved to tears when I saw the poem from your nursery, which I used to recite at bedtime, resting atop your dresser. I thought you had outgrown it, but what do I know? You’re my first child and my only son—there’s so much still to learn.
You can call me a stalker if you wish. I’ve watched you sleep through the years—ensuring your chest rose and fell as an infant, observing your little twitches as a toddler, and carefully brushing your unruly hair from your face as you read in elementary school. In middle school, I respected your need for privacy but still paused outside your door every night, hand resting gently on the frame, imagining you at peace. I wish I could join you in your dreams.
Each day with you meant I had to be well-rested. You see the world differently than most. In kindergarten, your intense dedication to being a T-Rex on the playground earned you lunch detention. At six, you insisted on being a “scorpion artist” and believed Mr. Potato Head needed a hole for his nose. To this day, I still don’t understand that one. You embraced learning through art and hands-on experiences. I often found myself teaching your teachers how to reach you. You were a beautiful challenge, and I had to be mentally prepared for each day to truly understand your perspective. By the end of the day, I looked forward to our ritual of a dance before bedtime, followed by “Hush, Little Baby” at 7 p.m.
This morning, I sense you don’t really need anything from me anymore. I’ve shared all that I know, and I’ve loved you more deeply than I ever thought possible. The car is packed for college, and everything is ready for your new adventure. In the early hours of this morning, when I used to crave sleep between feedings, I find myself wide awake. A part of me wants to rush downstairs to gently wake you, to recite that poem one last time, read another Golden Book, or simply share in your dreams. Yet, I know that if I do, it signals the beginning of a new chapter for you. So, for just a little while longer, as you embark on the life I’ve always envisioned for you, I’ll whisper this… Please, don’t wake the baby.
This article was originally published on Aug. 21, 2016.
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Summary
This heartfelt piece reflects on the unique experiences of parenting a spirited child. The author reminisces about the challenges and joys of raising a son, from bedtime rituals to the bittersweet realization of his impending independence as he prepares for college. It captures the essence of a mother’s love and the complexities of understanding a child’s distinct perspective on the world.