On certain mornings, I find myself hesitant to wake you, yearning instead for just a few more minutes of quiet coffee sipping. Getting you to sleep was always a challenge. You would only surrender to the land of dreams after an elaborate routine—gentle pats on your diapered bottom in multiples of seven, each with a pause, as I tiptoed out of the nursery, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboards.
From the very beginning, you were unique. No tags on your clothes, a preference for positioning your stuffed bat upside down in your shoes at nap time—because that’s how they sleep, of course—no mushy foods on your plate, and a makeshift hat was a must, whether it was your sister’s leggings, a butterfly net, my nursing pads, or an “inside-out” baseball cap.
Your boundless energy was unmistakable. It was both a joy and a challenge. When you were upset, your ears turned a bright crimson, a visual alarm signaling your fury. But in moments of joy, your exuberant squeal could halt traffic blocks away. From the first steps you took at nine months to your constant fidgeting with your phone today—much to your sister’s annoyance—you’ve always been in motion.
I cherish the evenings we’d spend together, creating “dog ears” with Johnson’s shampoo and reading Guess How Much I Love You in the glider, with your footie pajamas nestled in your fire engine sheets. Just last week, when we prepared a bedroom space in the basement for your college return, I was touched to find the nursery poem I used to recite at bedtime resting on your dresser. I thought you’d outgrown it, but I’ve learned that as your first parent and only son, I still have much to understand.
You might call me a bit obsessive, but I’ve watched you sleep through the years—ensuring your chest rose and fell as an infant, witnessing your toddler dreams of Mowgli chasing Baloo, and gently brushing your hair from your face as you read in elementary school. Your middle school years demanded a bit more privacy, yet I’d still pause outside your room each night, placing my hand softly on the door, picturing you at peace. I long to see your dreams, even if it means interrupting them.
Every day with you required a fresh mental reserve. You have always viewed the world through a distinct lens. In kindergarten, you faced lunch detention for being overly devoted to your role as a T-Rex. At six, you were determined to be a “scorpion artist” and insisted that Mr. Potato Head needed a hole in his backside for his nose—an enigma I still cannot solve. You embraced learning through your hands and creativity, and I often found myself teaching your teachers how to engage with you. You were both a delightful challenge and a joy, and I needed to mentally prepare myself each day to truly appreciate your perspective. Our nightly ritual of a little dance followed by “Hush, Little Baby” at 7 PM became my cherished routine.
This morning, I realize you likely don’t need anything from me anymore. I have shared all the wisdom I possess and loved you beyond measure. Your car is packed for college, and everything is ready. In these early hours, when I used to crave sleep between feedings, I find myself wide awake. Part of me longs to sneak downstairs, gently rouse you, and recite that poem one last time, read another beloved Golden Book, or witness your dreams alongside you. Yet, I understand that soon enough, it will be time for you to embark on the life I’ve always envisioned for you. So, for now, and for different reasons, I will softly whisper…please, don’t wake the baby.
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In summary, parenting is a journey filled with unique moments, challenges, and endless love. It requires patience, understanding, and a willingness to embrace the ever-evolving nature of your child’s growth and independence.