My oldest is out of bed for the fourth time this evening. Part of me is frustrated and angry. I want to claim that time for myself. To recharge. To have a moment without the kids.
But there is another part of me. A part that can’t help but smile. A part that pats the couch cushion and invites him to come sit. A part of me that needs another kiss from him.
Photos courtesy of Amara Lea Photography
I waffle.
There’s a part of me that wants the screaming and the chaos of the day to end. To say hands down it’s bedtime, no matter what. To hold firm. And never budge.
Because parenting young kids is exhausting.
And draining.
And consistency is everything.
I return to the part of me that wants him to be little forever. To let him creep out of bed with his blankie and sweet sing-songy voice and hear him beg to sit close to me.
Because I know it won’t always be this way.
This moment is fleeting.
He nuzzles his head on my chest and I put my arm around him. As I look down, he looks up and says, “I love you, mommy.” I kiss his forehead and hold his hand inside my own.
I think about my boundaries. That I need to take him back to bed. That I need to tell him who’s boss.
And yet—I don’t.
I hold him closer, grab a book and read it to him.
This moment is fleeting.
Consistency is everything.
But so is love.
And connection.
I know that one day my son will go to bed and tell me to stop hugging and kissing him so much. I know that one day he’s probably going to tell me that he doesn’t need me anymore. And I know with the utmost certainty that one day his hands will be bigger than mine.
We finish reading our book together. He puts it back on the shelf and looks to me. I tell him softly but firmly, “It’s bedtime.”
He nods — surprisingly.
I pick him up and throw his blankie over my shoulder. He is way too big for carrying, but I do it anyway.
For a moment I close my eyes and try to imagine what it was like when I carried him like this as a baby.
I’m forgetting.
Without looking at pictures or seeing a video, I’m struggling to truly remember what he was like as a baby.
This moment is fleeting.
It’s impossible to savor every moment. When the back talk and disrespect take over. When the power struggles seem like too much. When I’m trying so hard and my kids won’t listen.
My patience wears thin. I get angry. I’m only human.
But tonight?
I’m savoring this moment.
I’m holding him close to smell his sweet scent. I’m kissing his cheeks to feel the marshmallow squishiness. I’m hugging him tight trying to lock this memory in my brain forever.
I don’t want to forget any of this.
This moment is fleeting.
There’s a part of you that will always see your babies as your babies, but eventually they get old enough that they don’t see themselves as your baby.
They become independent.
You raise them to leave you.
They grow up.
Then there’s another part of you that just wants to do it all for them. A part of you that wants them to need you. Desperately. Forever. And ever.
You know…
This moment is fleeting.
I lay my son down in his bed. I cover him up exactly the way he likes: quilt, extra blanket, blankie, no sheet.
I kiss him on the forehead.
My voice cracks and I whisper, “I love you, son.”
In the darkness, I stand there for a moment. I turn to leave the room, then pause and turn back.
I’m about to do something I never do.
I crawl into bed with him and snuggle him as much as any mother could. I’ll sleep there next to him tonight.
His body nuzzles perfectly into my own.
One day it won’t.
A version of this post originally appeared on Military Wife and Mom. You can connect with Lauren of Military Wife and Mom on Facebook and Instagram.
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- This Moment Is Fleeting - Thursday, April 20, 2017
This post is beautiful. I love how you are able to embrace those special moments and realize they are fleeting. Sometimes life makes us forget that.