Tired. Tired tired tired. The standard answer for any parent of young children when someone asks them how they’re doing.
I’m no exception. Xander wakes too early. Still drops paci and needs help finding it at 2, 3, 4 AM. Gets scared of something and needs us. Sometimes it’s an easy fix. Plug him back in, show him Blankie, and back to sleep (or, as he signs, milk-sleep; the two are inexorably linked).
Sometimes, though, he whimpers a bit longer, and I just cannot let him cry alone in his crib in the dark. At nap time, sure, I can draw a harder line. But at night time, something switches and all I can see is that he’s my baby, my sweet little boy, forever that squawky newborn flapping free of his swaddle in the co-sleeper. These times I lift him up, sniffing his curls as he lays his head against my shoulder, and sit in the arm chair in the corner, humming “You are my sunshine” while we cuddle in the orange glow of his night light. He stares at me through impossibly long lashes, and his dimpled fingers run up and down my arm, mimicking the rhythmic stroke of my hand along his fleece-clad body.
Slowly, slowly, his eyes flutter shut and his breathing slows and he sleeps.
I stay there, though, humming in the dark, feeling the weight of him against my chest, on my legs. I may be tiredtiredtired, but I never wish the time away. I never wish he’d stop needing me. I stay as long as I can before returning him to his crib, my arms already missing the feel of his skin, even if just for a night. And when the next night comes, I find myself once again wishing that he’ll sleep straight through, and that he’ll wake up and want me. The two wants are inexorably linked.
Thank you for making me cry.
It’s hard to remember to cherish those moments when you’re so exhausted. But I agree with you, those times are oh so sweet.