Today, I will keep this rocking chair. You are about to turn 3. The stages are moving past me so fast. I’ve already given away your baby toys, took down the baby gate, wrestled down your pacifier, and gone is your crib.
But I can’t give up this rocking chair. As long as we both can squish and snuggle together in it, your hand on my chest, I will read to you here in my arms.
Because one day will be the last day. One day you will no longer fit cozily. Soon you will be reading on your own.
And when you ask me to lie with you to fall asleep, I will always say yes. Because one day you won’t ask me. Even when I want to rush through bedtime, my head full of all the things I need to do, I will lie down with you.
My life is molded around your stages. As soon as I learn to navigate one stage, you are on to the next. I want to see you grow up, to make life easier, to play with your big brother, to be independent, to give me more freedom.
And when you climb into my bed before dawn, I will open up the covers for you, and kiss your sweet nose. I won’t be so annoyed that I have to get up early, exhausted, because I have you to cuddle with.
My life is now wound about your ever-changing ages. How I yearn for you to potty train, ride a bike, solve the puzzle by yourself, but then you’re one step closer to leaving the nest.
I remind myself now, when I’m home from work and dizzy from cooking dinner, checking to do’s, and you are there pulling on my leg. I will stop and lift you up, and make you a part of my moment.
These are not stages to get through, because there is independence at the end. You need me now, and I am here for you.
You’ve Taught Me
You’ve taught me to slow down, absorb the moments, take the time. Play one game with you. Read one more book. Color everywhere. Get outside.
I’ve learned more patience, perseverance, and that I can do anything.
Now I know that I must have goals for myself, to constantly become a better mom, and in turn I need to instill a thirst in you for the highest of dreams.
I find myself staring, trying desperately to memorize your sweet little face. Before it’s changed in a blink.
You are my baby, my last, and always will be. But I will try not to treat you so. You are more than your brother’s playmate, more than Older Child 2.0. I will celebrate your uniqueness.
I don’t want to give up this rocking chair just yet, and give up rocking you.
Related: How to Make More Me Time as Moms