My son snores.
Six months into his life, I had already forgotten. After surviving through newborn-ness to get here – this glorious, fun-filled place where bounces bring giggles and he reaches for me when he misses me – the funny sound he makes while he sleeps had fallen from my brain.
I was in the other room tonight, piecing together a quilt for my kid and trying to forget work puzzles when I heard him cry. Actually, it was more of a little tiny mew. Had he cried, I probably would have patted his back a few times and left him to work it out on his own, but the mew? I couldn’t resist lifting him right out of his comfy slumber into my arms for a snuggle.
“I shouldn’t do this,” I thought.
Then I remembered my resolution not to “should,” only to do or not do. My life, my kid, my prerogative.
Because I’m the mama.
In a few moments I’ll lay him back down so he can get some real sleep. Really, any moment. In the meantime, I’m sniffing and rocking and snuggling because we can. We earned this, my son and I, and if we don’t choose to snuggle because we can, who will?
I love being this kid’s mama. Despite all my anxiousness before he arrived, in being responsible for him – to him – I’ve found peace deep down where the anxiousness used to live.
And if somehow, this is all because of the meds, I’ll take it.
But I don’t think it is.