Later that evening, in another room, in another chair, he curls his legs up in to my lap and rests his head on my shoulder as best he can. Again I marvel at how much he's grown. How he used to fit into my arms and on my shoulder with no difficulty at all. How he now dangles off the chair and what used to be chubby, baby softness is all arms and legs and energy. We rock and we talk about our day. What was fun, what was new. We say our prayers. We thank God for all of our blessings. We listen to music and exchange "pokono" (Eskimo) kisses and squeezes. Gone are the days of rocking him to sleep. But still I linger just a little longer. Exchanging one more joke, one more story. Enjoying the feel of his head on my shoulder, the smell of his hair. This is our time. Just he and I. No crying sister, no "in a minute"s, no tantrums. Just us.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The room is dim with the sunlight of mid-morning seeping through the cracks of the window shade. The only sounds are her soft breathing and the creak of the chair rocking back and forth. I snuggle her close to me, watching her eyelids flutter and then finally close. I relish the weight of her on my chest, in my arm, marveling at her size - how much she's grown in just a few short months. I know that I am supposed to put her in the crib "drowsy but awake" but I can't always bring myself to do it. The period of time that she will allow me to hold her close and rock her to sleep is so small and gets shorter by the day. This is our time together. Just her and I. No phone ringing, no email, no brother needing attention, no conversations needing to be had. Just us.