Fiddledeedee

My 20 month old son has forgotten that he knows how to sleep through the night. Therefore, so have I. I’m not certain what the trouble is. It could be teething, his excema is bothering him, he’s cold, or he just misses my company. Because, you know, I’m so much fun to hang out with in the middle of the night. And I look so good. What with my black zorro mask, white cotton gloves (for hand moisturizing overnight), retainer, and crazed expression on my face. At one point, I laid him down, asleep, but couldn’t find his sleeping blanket. It’s a very small Blues Clues Blanket that he chews on at night. And during the day. Pretty much always. I hit my knees crawling around for what seemed like an eternity, when I noticed that it was on my shoulder.

I was up with him three times last night. Three. I’m stumbling around here today unable to put a coherent thought togather together. I set the kitchen timer for something, and when it sounded, I returned to the kitchen. I have no idea why I set it in the first place. It coulda’ been worse, I suppose. He could still be an infant, I could be breastfeeding from bleeding and sore nipples, and coffee would be forbidden. That made me shudder, I type, sipping my third cup of coffee.

As I was rocking Jensen in the folding camping rocker, otherwise known as the torture chamber (our comfy old glider rocker stopped gliding and began lurching), I had a chance to pray to God in the quiet of the night. It could have been construed more as begging. “Please God, give me the strength to get through this day. Without too much yelling.” A sense of peace came over me. I smelled my baby’s soft freshly washed hair, and felt his breath on my shoulder. I realized that these days are fleeting. Not much longer is he going to fit on my lap to be rocked back to sweet slumber. It’s a tight squeeze now as it is. He has to scrunch himself up, frog-style, on my chest. He’s a really big baby. He reminds me of that cartoon I saw when I was a kid. You know, the one where the stork, having I guess ingested too many rum balls at the company Christmas party, delivered an enormous baby to two anxiously expectant parents. The baby was suppose to be delivered to the giant in Jack and the Beanstock, and his lovely wife, Gertrude. But, I know that this baby is all mine. Every square inch of him.

Something comes back to me. Last year at a MOPS meeting, we had a wonderful guest speaker who had survived the parenting years, and was enjoying an empty nest. She told this group of bloodshot-eyed, weary mommies that she would give up everything she owned, everything, to have one day back to spend with her children when they were toddlers. Even during the insanity. There was not a dry eye in the room. I’ll never forget what she said.

And so, today, that is what I will hang on to. I will cherish those times of quiet in the middle of the night, while I rock my baby to sleep. And devour the feeling of him cuddled on my chest, his sweet head resting on my shoulder. Knowing that he is right where he most wants to be. And so am I.

And I will give thanks for the gift of caffeine.