There were times I hesitated to wake you up. I craved just a few more moments with my coffee, relishing the quiet before the day began. Getting you to sleep was always a bit of a challenge; it involved a careful routine of tapping your diapered bottom seven times, pausing in between, and stepping out of the nursery with utmost care to avoid the creaky floorboards.
You’ve always had your own unique preferences — no tags in your clothes, a specific way to position your stuffed bat upside down in your shoe for nap time because “that’s how they rest,” a strict aversion to mushy foods, and your makeshift hats, which could be anything from your sister’s leggings to my nursing pads or even an inside-out baseball cap.
Your energy was unmistakable, both delightful and sometimes overwhelming, making the decision to wake you even tougher. When you were angry, your ears turned a vibrant red, your fists clenched, and your jaw jutted out in a way that could rival any classic movie villain. When you were happy, your squeals could easily stop traffic. From your first steps at just nine months to the constant fidgeting with your phone that drives your sister up the wall, you’ve always been in motion.
I cherished our evening rituals — the dog ears with Johnson’s shampoo, snuggling in the glider while reading Guess How Much I Love You, and the cozy footie pajamas tucked into your fire engine sheets. Just last week, while setting up a space for you in the basement for your return home, I was deeply moved to find the poem I used to recite when tucking you in placed on your dresser. I thought you’d outgrown it, but then again, you’re my first child and my only son; I’m still learning.
You might call me a stalker, but I’ve always watched you sleep — as an infant, ensuring your chest rose and fell, as a toddler, dreaming of adventures, and later, gently removing books and flashlights from your hands when you’d fallen asleep in elementary school. I’d pause outside your room every night, my hand resting lightly on the door, imagining you at peace. I wish I could join you in your dreams.
Every day with you required me to be mentally prepared. You view the world in a way that’s entirely your own. In kindergarten, you earned lunch detention for being too committed to your role as a T-Rex on the playground. At six, you insisted that Mr. Potato Head needed a hole in his backside for his nose. Your learning style was hands-on and artistic, and I often found myself teaching your teachers how to teach you. You were both a challenge and a joy, and I needed to recharge each night, looking forward to our bedtime ritual of a little dance followed by “Hush, Little Baby” at 7 p.m.
This morning, I doubt you need anything more from me. I’ve shared all I know, and my love for you has exceeded all expectations. With the car packed for college and everything ready, I find myself wide awake in the early hours, a time when I used to yearn for sleep between feedings. Part of me wants to sneak downstairs, gently shake you awake, and recite that poem just one more time, read another Golden Book, or simply watch you dream. Yet, I know that soon it will be time for you to embark on the life I’ve always hoped for you. So today, for different reasons and just a little longer, I’ll whisper this… Please, don’t wake the baby.
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Summary:
This reflection on parenting captures the bittersweet moments of watching a child grow, from their unique quirks to bedtime rituals. As a mother prepares to send her son off to college, she cherishes memories and the profound love she has for him while navigating the challenges of parenting.