Last Snuggle
We are snuggled under blankets in her bed, her stuffed lamb and bunny and assorted dolls under the covers with us.
"Tell me a story, Mommy," she says. So I tell her one of her favorite stories, one that I made up about her and her brothers. The story never varies, and she always giggles at the ending.
The story ends, her fingers go in her mouth and her arm curls around her lamb. She strokes my face with her other hand, as her breathing gets slow and heavy.
Her eyes close and her body melts into my side.
How many more times will I get to do this? How many more afternoons spent in her bed, reading and telling stories and singing songs? For how much longer will she beg me to snuggle her? For how much longer will I be the center of her world? When will be the last time I am at her side as she falls asleep?
I don't know when, but I do know the day will come and my heart is heavy with the knowledge. I feel weak and weary at the thought that one day, it will be the last time she asks for a song, and then falls asleep while I sing.
I have spent years putting little ones to bed, but always with the thought of another little one on the way for me to put to bed. But she is my last, I suppose, and the moments of holding a little one to my heart are drawing to a close. I can't imagine what life will be like without those moments.
Each time I get to put my little one to bed, I am ever mindful that it may be my last. And I grieve over it. I see it slipping away too quickly and I am helpless to stop it.
Many moms rejoice over the last diaper or feeding at the breast, the last time in the crib or the last nap. But I find no cause to rejoice, other than in the fact that it symbolizes they are healthy and growing and living a good life.
Perhaps since I have teenagers and adult children, I especially mourn. I know what is coming. The exhaustion and weariness of mothering small children gives way to exhaustion and weariness of another kind. One that is not placated by a story and a song and a snuggle.
Cherish this time Mama. Hold on as long as you can.
"Tell me a story, Mommy," she says. So I tell her one of her favorite stories, one that I made up about her and her brothers. The story never varies, and she always giggles at the ending.
The story ends, her fingers go in her mouth and her arm curls around her lamb. She strokes my face with her other hand, as her breathing gets slow and heavy.
Her eyes close and her body melts into my side.
How many more times will I get to do this? How many more afternoons spent in her bed, reading and telling stories and singing songs? For how much longer will she beg me to snuggle her? For how much longer will I be the center of her world? When will be the last time I am at her side as she falls asleep?
I don't know when, but I do know the day will come and my heart is heavy with the knowledge. I feel weak and weary at the thought that one day, it will be the last time she asks for a song, and then falls asleep while I sing.
I have spent years putting little ones to bed, but always with the thought of another little one on the way for me to put to bed. But she is my last, I suppose, and the moments of holding a little one to my heart are drawing to a close. I can't imagine what life will be like without those moments.
Each time I get to put my little one to bed, I am ever mindful that it may be my last. And I grieve over it. I see it slipping away too quickly and I am helpless to stop it.
Many moms rejoice over the last diaper or feeding at the breast, the last time in the crib or the last nap. But I find no cause to rejoice, other than in the fact that it symbolizes they are healthy and growing and living a good life.
Perhaps since I have teenagers and adult children, I especially mourn. I know what is coming. The exhaustion and weariness of mothering small children gives way to exhaustion and weariness of another kind. One that is not placated by a story and a song and a snuggle.
Cherish this time Mama. Hold on as long as you can.
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