What I Want to Remember

It's the middle of the night, and the house is quiet. I'm desperate for sleep, my eyes trying to close on their own despite my best efforts to prevent that very thing. I'm frustrated and grumpy, jealous at the heavy breathing I'm hearing on the other side of the room that tells me Matt and Amber are getting the sleep I wish I could get.

Instead, I'm rocking back and forth, back and forth in the glider, with Nathan passed out on my chest. It's the third time he's woken up after getting put in bed, and I'm out of ideas how to get him to sleep. He won't let me put him down without screaming as though he's in pain. I've gone through the whole list of possible problems and solutions, and nothing seems to be helping him--just sleeping on me while I gently rock him.

As I attempt to overcome the frustration that I'm not sleeping, I'm transported back several months, to the days when this glider got used regularly. I remember the days when Nathan was a newborn suffering from awful gas pain that we had yet to diagnose. He would cry for no reason at night for sometimes hours at a time. I finally found a specific way to hold and rock him as I walked, and I spent hours pacing and rocking, pacing and rocking, until he was relaxed enough that I could carefully perch on the glider, keeping up the same rhythm of the rocking with my arms sore from holding his weight for that long. I remember how anxious I was that any change on my part would wake him, bringing on the crying fit yet again. In these days, the whole goal was to be able to eventually transfer him to his bed without disturbing his sleep.

How could it be that I miss these days with all the anxiety of getting him to sleep? How could I have not grasped the wonder at the time that I had a miracle sleeping in my arms, that I alone could find the formula to his contentment in the midst of such pain?

So tonight I change my goal; it is no longer to get him to sleep in his own bed but to cherish the precious moments I'm sharing with him. I focus on the increasing weight of his body against my chest as he falls into a deeper sleep, his gentle sigh-breathing against the backdrop of his daddy's heavy near-snores, the soft fuzz of his hair tickling my chin. This is what I will remember from the night, not the frustration or sleep deprivation.

Moments like these are growing few and far between, and I do not want to look back months and years down the line and wish I had taken time to cherish the occasion instead of complaining about it. Instead, this moment will be wrapped up and placed in the far corners of my memory where I can treasure it and pull it out from time to time to reminisce about such sweet moments I have shared with my precious son.