There were days when I hesitated to wake you. All I wanted was a few more moments with my coffee. Getting you to sleep was a challenge; you would only embrace dreamland if I patted your diapered bottom precisely seven times, paused, and stealthily retreated from the nursery, sidestepping those creaky floorboards like a ninja.
You have always been particular — no tags in your clothes, your stuffed bat resting upside down in your shoe at nap time because “that’s how they sleep,” nothing mushy on your plate, and a makeshift hat perched atop your head, whether it was your sister’s leggings, a butterfly net, my nursing pads, or an “inside-outed” baseball cap.
Your energy was unmistakable. It was abundant, both in joy and fury, making the decision to wake you all the more agonizing. When upset, your ears would turn crimson, fists clenched, jaw jutting out with a glare that could rival Jack Nicholson. In happiness, your squeal could halt traffic six blocks away. You never stopped moving, from your first steps at nine months to the endless fidgeting with your cell phone that drives your sister up the wall.
I cherished our bedtime routines — the “dog ears” with Johnson’s shampoo and reading Guess How Much I Love You in the glider, not to mention those footie pajamas snuggled in your fire engine sheets. Just last week, as we set up your bedroom in the basement for your return, tears welled in my eyes when I saw you place the nursery poem I used to recite at bedtime on your dresser. I thought you had outgrown it, but what do I know? You’re my first and only son. I’m still figuring it all out.
You can call me a stalker if you like. I watched you sleep as a baby, ensuring your chest rose and fell. As a toddler, I observed you twitching like Mowgli chasing Baloo. In elementary school, I’d sneak a glance as you slept, carefully removing the book and flashlight from your hands and brushing that wild hair away from your face. In middle school, I only peeked for a moment because you deserved your privacy. Now, I pause outside your door each night, hand resting gently on it, picturing you in peaceful slumber. I wish I could join you in your dreams.
Every day with you required me to rest deeply beforehand. You perceive the world differently — always have. In kindergarten, you earned lunch detention for your passionate portrayal of a T-Rex on the playground. At six, you were determined to be a “scorpion artist” and insisted that Mr. Potato Head needed a hole in his backside for his nose. To this day, I have no clue why. You learned through your hands and art. I had to teach your teachers how to teach you. You were both a challenge and a delight. Yet, I needed to be mentally prepared each day to think like you and see your world. By the end of each day, I was ready to wind down with our tango and “Hush, Little Baby” at 7 p.m.
This morning, I don’t think you need anything from me anymore. I’ve imparted all I know and loved you beyond what I thought possible. The car is loaded for college, and you’re all set. In these early hours, when I used to long for sleep between feedings, I find myself wide awake. Part of me wants to rush downstairs to gently jostle you awake, just to recite that poem one more time, read another Golden Book, or share in your dreams. Yet, I know that once I do, it’ll be time to let go. So, for very different reasons today and just a bit longer before you embark on the life I’ve always envisioned for you, I’ll whisper this… Please, don’t wake the baby.