Rocking My Baby

I still rock Nolan to sleep.

He’s going to be two next month. I’d worry that I’ve instilled some terrible sleep habits except he goes down at night just fine. Nighttime is easy. Diaper change, clothes off, pajamas on, read two books in the rocking chair, sing the Daniel Tiger goodnight song, “fissy” (read: fishy) projection on the ceiling, sound of rain on the sound machine, plop him in bed and goodnight goodbye see you in the morning.

Naptime is another story.

I plop him in bed and he does just fine flipping through (or occasionally ripping apart) some books for a while. But it doesn’t take long before I hear, “Mommy! Mommmmeeee! Mom-MEEEE!”. Mommy, mommy, mommy on repeat. I’m not sure exactly how long he would keep it up if I let him. I cave after a few minutes since I have three others to worry about in rooms nearby: two three-year olds in separate rooms and a husband in the bedroom-turned-office that shares a wall with Nolan’s room, all attempting their own version of work and quiet time. So I give in, go upstairs, open the door, peek my head in. “Up,” he demands with that serious little look, chin tucked down, big blue eyes looking up at me. “Rock,” he says, and so I do.

Part of the reason I’ve kept it up this long is that it’s quick. It takes no longer than five minutes and usually less than two. The second his head hits my shoulder and I start to move around the room his body relaxes. I make a couple of laps around the bedroom and stop in front of his door to do the side-to-side bounce that does him in every time. Right-left-right-left-right-left and it doesn’t take much before he’s a goner.

Part of it is that I’m lazy. It’s the easy thing to do, the why-fix-what-ain’t-broken route. After a full morning of carrying, feeding, changing, driving, playing, disciplining, and plain old interacting with three little ones, I’m over it. It’s naptime. Just go to sleep. Whatever it takes. A quick rock, drop him in the crib where he immediately rolls over to his right side, V for victory arms as I walk out of the room, and done.

Part of me enjoys it. I didn’t enjoy the rocking all that much when they were babies, when I could walk and rock and pace the room for half an hour and still not know if they were really asleep, if they would stay asleep, if they would ever for the love of God please just sleep. But this two minutes and done rocking session is right up my alley. I put in my time, he does his thing, and see you later. It’s a remnant of his babyhood. He still curls his hand up right against his cheek. I have pictures of him with the same face, the same hand, the same droopy-lipped position when he was a real baby, not the boy-giant he is now.

It’s a connection to this babyhood, I suppose. Really the last fragment of it from an almost-two year old who is ahead of the game in nearly every other area, one who is talking in full sentences, counting to ten, who could climb up to the top of the tallest part of our neighborhood playground at 14-months old, and often eats more at a meal than his brother and sister combined. (Well, the naptime rocking and the diapers. Though the diapers aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. He asks for the potty and then runs away screaming, “I don’t like it!” *sigh* Someday…)

My right shoulder is often tense and sore. I’m sure it’s from these rocking sessions, every day at naptime. They may last mere minutes, but my “baby” is now 30+ pounds. My right shoulder is exactly the spot where he curls up, and has curled up, nearly every day for the past two years. (Somehow “fit in monthly massage therapy appointments” hasn’t quite made it into the budget in the past 24 months.)

I don’t have any real plans to drop our daily rocking session in the near future. I’ve made arbitrary deadlines before...when he’s 15 months old...when he’s a year and a half...sometime this fall...but I clearly haven’t followed through. It’s the one time a day, just me and him, that I don’t mind it being just me and him. The rest of the time he’s so loud, so active, so wiggly, so squirmy, so fast, so much. He relaxes for a couple of minutes in my arms and so do I. Now if he could just get the hang of that whole nap thing for more than an hour and fifteen minutes at a time...

Photo credit: Prall Photography.

On Take-Out, Goal Setting, and Enjoying it All

I’d been sick the past couple of days. Nothing major, nothing more than an ordinary cold, but annoying just the same. I’d have liked nothing more than to breathe easily through my own nose.

It was evening, and by that time I’m wiped anyway. We had a parent-child class in the morning and my aunt came over to do some Christmas baking in the afternoon. I actually felt great for most of the day, but the moment my aunt left I felt drained. I hadn’t noticed. Apparently I’d been running on adrenaline. I looked at the clock and briefly considered ordering take-out for dinner but balked at the idea. I’d made it this far, hadn’t I? Surely I could do dinner, too.

While Tyson loaded the kids in the car to drive around and look at Christmas lights (their seasonal while-mommy-makes-dinner activity) I got to work. Sliced potatoes and ran ingredients through the food processor, cleaned Brussels sprouts.

Too soon, the door banged to signal their arrival home.

“Is dinner ready?” Tyson asked, “You never texted.”

Exactly! I thought, So why are you here?!?

I glanced at the clock, and was shocked when I looked at the time. 5:42. No wonder they were home. It was twelve minutes past the time dinner was usually on the table, the time it had (mostly) been on the table the past 3.5 years. And I still had a half hour to go.

He asked what I was making. I mumbled something along the lines of, “I don’t know something new,” as I tried to hurry dinner up, though veggies roasting in the oven aren’t exactly the kind of thing that can be rushed.

“Wait. So you don’t feel well, and your aunt was over all afternoon while you guys baked cookies, and you decided to make a new recipe?” he asked.

Well when you put it like that, I thought, that does sound pretty dumb.

+++++

I’m famous for these types of decisions. Part of it is a mom thing, a woman thing, I think. We push and push and push and even when we are at the brink we push some more. I handled the rest of it, so I can handle this next thing, too, right?

This was a night, of all nights, to order take-out. Why didn’t I? There was no reason for me to cook, not really. The ingredients would have been fine for another day. We already had plenty of clean-up to tackle after an afternoon of baking. They could have taken their Christmas light joyride on the way to pick up food from our favorite Thai place, while I cleaned up the kitchen cookie mess in peace.

It sounds so simple in hindsight.

+++++

I’m not much of a goal setter. I would never call myself a goal setter in any way, shape, or form. I’m a planner, but not in that way.

Until this year. Because some friends started talking about Powersheets. At first I rolled my eyes a little bit, because, y’know, goal setting and I don’t do that, but then they kept talking about it. I got interested in spite of myself. And before I knew it I had gone to the website and added them to my shopping cart and hit the purchase button and some Powersheets were on their way to my house. I didn't really even know what it was but it helped that it was super pretty. I’m a sucker for something pretty every time.

I began mapping things out, setting goals. Things that were already in my head but are now out on paper, realizing along the way that I guess I am a goal setter, after all. Everything from monthly date nights out to drinking more water to making time for writing at least two times a week. I thought about what worked last year and what didn’t.

That night in December definitely didn’t.

I thought more about what I wanted for this year and realized this is the last year — the last full calendar year — to be home with all three kids. Caden and Brooklyn will start kindergarten in the fall of 2019. It seems like an eternity until I realize they’re almost four and Nolan is almost two and it’s so totally not.

I picked my word for the year. Enjoy. I want to enjoy this year. Last year felt like so much survival but this year, as much as possible, I want to enjoy it.

Not joy. That felt too commanding, too easy to fail. Be joyful! I don’t want to have joy this year I want to enjoy this year. Especially when I looked up the definition to find that "enjoy" means not only to take delight or pleasure in but also to possess and benefit from. Yes. I want that. I want to take delight and benefit from it all.

I want to enjoy my kids. I want to take more adventures, save more time for exploring, give them more attention one-on-one. I want to enjoy Tyson, which includes weekly date nights in, monthly date nights out, giving him the best of me. I want to enjoy my purchases and be intentional with my spending. I want to enjoy my writing as I map out time to clear my head and explore what I want to do in the future. I want to enjoy my friends whether it's spending time on Voxer or scheduling a girl's night out. I want to enjoy my body which sounds kind of dirty but in keeping with this theme I want to drink more water, complete a round of Whole 30, and get back into a regular yoga routine.

That should-have-just-ordered-take-out night in December was not one I enjoyed. I was hungry, the kids were hangry, it was too close to bedtime, there were things to clean. I want to enjoy my time, not feel pressured by it. I’m going to order take-out when I’ve had a busy day and don’t feel well and tell the voice in my head that says otherwise to go to hell.

I’m not going to be perfect. I’m not going for the ludicrous impossibility of enjoying every moment here. (Hey dishes: I’m still not going to enjoy doing you.) But I do want to enjoy each day, each week, each month, overall. As a whole. I think I can do that.

And I see a lot more take-out in our future.