I sit here listening to the smoky voice of Adele belting out her tale of betrayal and retribution on "Rolling in the Deep", knowing I'm going to have to regretfully shut off the music if I want to keep writing. As much as I love (LOVE) listening to Adele Adkins singing--she could sing the ABC's and I'd be happy to sit at rapt attention while she does it--I've never been able to read or write while music is playing. Kind of ironic, since I consider myself such a "music person." Ok I give, just hold on a minute; I want to listen to the rest of the song. "...you're gonna wish you....never had met me....tears are gonna fall....rollin' in the deep....you played it, you played it, you played it, you played it to the beat." Ok. Music's off now.
Why'm I writing tonight? I just feel like it, I guess, and the rest of the house is quiet, which is rare. A short while ago I crept out of Judah's room. He woke up with some sort of ambiguous sleep disturbance and in order to avoid having him wake the whole house (read: Laura, who screams loudly and could wake up the neighbors), I came in and comforted him. I rocked him for a few minutes in the decrepit Walmart rocking chair that amazingly still holds up--albeit barely-- after almost six years of ownership (we got it as a gift when B was born). We have to pop the pegs of the right arm of the chair back into their holes on the end piece every time we sit down, and the chair has a truly annoying squeak if there is any amount of moisture in the air, but it serves its purpose well enough. I rock my baby boy, who will be three next month, and then gently lay him down in his bed....is he asleep enough to just roll over and keep sleeping? I tiptoe out and the minute my toe is over the threshold of his doorway I hear the start of his little puppy dog whine all over again, and I wait to see if he just gets over himself and goes back to sleep. Nope. Sigh. I go back in, sit down next to his bed, ask him what's wrong, if he is ok, and if he wants a drink. He's fine, and no he doesn't want any water. He doesn't know what he wants. He's half-asleep but restless. I cover him with his blanket. He kicks it off with a grumpy "no I don' wannit!" Ok, don't have it. I resign myself to sitting there until he's truly and deeply asleep. This used to happen almost nightly with him, but as he's gotten older, it only happens on occasion. I'm glad for that; he used to wear us out with his nightly waking. He still creeps into our bedroom in the middle of the night a couple times a week but that has lessened as well. He's growing, my little Judah-Budah. Not a baby anymore. I lie down on his bedroom floor next to his bed, using his white Christmas snow bear for a pillow, as I always do. I'm in my standard house "uniform" (the kind that no one sees but Walter and the kids)--a sleeveless tank top and a knit skirt. After a few minutes of lying on the floor, my arms start to get chilly. I pull my most exposed arm inside my shirt like I used to do when I was a kid. I carefully arrange my skirt at the bottom so it covers my legs and feet as much as possible. I don't have a blanket, as I wasn't prepared to camp out in my son's room for half an hour tonight. It's ok though. With my creative coverings, and my makeshift pillow (it's actually really comfortable, that snow bear), I'm comfortable enough to get drowsy as I muse about a million things. Our trip to Florida next month. Getting the house in order for a missions/outreach committee meeting here tomorrow night. Doing school with B tomorrow. Going to Dartmouth on Friday for Laura's checkup with her allergist. I reflect on the nice time we had at B's dance class today. I got to see my good friend Lori and her daughter Macy, one of Bethany's "special friends." I got to chat with another mom too, whose little girl is named Charlize, just like the actress Charlize Theron. I muse over the impromptu chat I had in Vista Foods this afternoon when I ran into an old acquaintance who wanted to know all about the family and how we're doing these days. All these things, run through my head at lightning speed, as I lay there in the darkness with only the light from a Cars nightlight shining. I reach a break in my train of thought and glance up at Judah. I can see by the light of Lightning McQueen that he's finally out for real. I sit up, wince as my knees pop and crack (I might be as decrepit as the rocking chair), hoping all my flurry of noise doesn't disturb the boy, and quietly stand up. I look at him one last time, consider pulling the blanket over him once more, and decide against it. If he's cold, he'll pull it up over him. I'd rather not risk it. I tiptoe out of his bedroom. All's quiet. Seems like the last leg of the parenting journey for this day has been completed.
I love my babies and I love writing about them. Being a parent has its ups and downs, to be sure. Sometimes a little one-on-one time with one of my children, even if it's just to comfort them back to sleep, is just the little blessing I need, even when I don't realize it. When I'm discouraged or frustrated, something, some little moment, blesses me and I get reminded for the thousandth time that this journey of motherhood is a gift, and nothing less.
