if my words did glow
with the gold of sunshine
and my tunes
on the harp, unstrung
would you hear my voice
come through the music
would you hold it near
as it were your own
Bare feet on the carpet in his bedroom, I hold him up with my arms and my words as I sing this to him.
ripple in still water
when there is no pebble tossed
nor wind to blow
For three nights now, this has been our routine. A hesitant one, at first, as it feels foreign to me. On the first night, I assumed it a fluke. Not since he was a small baby has Rohan wanted to be held and rocked into dreams. Many hours were spent on my beloved yoga ball, bouncing and shushing and cuddling and kissing fat little fingers when he was a newborn. But then he got a little older, learned how to roll, and decided he didn't want to be rocked or shushed; he wanted to be put down with his Bop and his blankie and left alone to fall blissfully to sleep.
there is a road
no simple highway
between the dawn and the dark of night
and if you go
no one may follow
that path is for
your steps alone
And so this has been our routine. Diaper. Jammies. Milk. Kiss. Cuddle. Blankie. Bed. Door. And then sweet silence of slumber until morning time. He hasn't been into co-sleeping since he learned to roll over. He does things his way. He leads us, and not the other way around.
you who choose to lead must follow
but if you fall, you fall alone
I haven't figured out what's going on, but the past three nights the 'put in crib and shut the door' routine has been loudly protested. Not just a whine and a moan, but a screeching cry. And when I open the door and go back in (which I always do - we're not a cry it out household), his little face is red and soaked in hot tears, and he reaches for me and says "Up?" The few times I've tried to just give him his Bop back and encourage him to lay back down, he stands in the crib and reaches over the railing, buries his head into my belly and wraps his arms tight around me.
if you should stand, then who's to guide you
if i knew the way, i would take you home
I lift him, all 28 pounds of clammy-skinned boy, into my arms. He wraps his legs around me, buries his head into my shoulder so that I can burrow my face into his soft blonde hair, and he grabs at me with his strong little hands. As I begin to dance with him, he taps his fingers lightly on the back of my arm; we create our own rhythm together up there, the sounds of Darrick and Luca reading bedtime books climbing up the stairs.
reach out your hand
if your cup be empty
if your cup is full, may it be again
And there we dance, just the two of us enraptured with each other. I sing the first song that comes to me, soft and light, and it's always this one. For some reason, it's the one that comes to me as I dance with my son, and it's the song that sends him into dreams the fastest. I feel his body as it grows heavier, pulled to the earth with sleep. His fingers stop tapping and his arms sink to his sides, and I put him down gently in his crib. Never wishing this new routine away. Not even for a moment. How could I, when his body is so warm and his hair is so soft and his smell intoxicates me in a way only a mom could understand?
it's a hand me down
the thoughts are broken
perhaps they're better left unsung
i don't know
don't really care
let there be songs
to fill the air