I fit in your crib, you know. You won't remember sharing your crib with me, but I will.
You were going through a really rough patch, inconsolable and frantic at 11pm, 1am, 3am, just all out of sorts. You were about ten months old. This had happened for several nights in a row. Your dad and I would take turns being the one to pat you in your crib as you thrashed wildly, obviously confused and worked up to the very tippy-top of your panic meter. That night I was at the end of my ability to stay upright soothing you, I was also at the end of my tolerance for watching you struggle so hard to find calm with me through our usual means, so I decided to just bunk with you instead.
I hiked up my robe and climbed in. Your crib is specifically designed to be easier for shorter caretakers to pick up and lay down their children. Yes, I know, hilarious. But it made it possible for me to step inside with some effort. Your relaxation was immediate as you naturally rolled into the C shape of my body, patting my chest rhythmically with your open hand as your cheek pressed into the soft, minky fabric of my bathrobe, just like you used to when you were a newborn and we would nest on the couch together all day. Your body turned to jelly, your breathing slowed down, and you conked out. So I did, too.
I've since been in your crib with you three or four times. A couple more times to get you through that particular phase, and then again two nights ago. It was unexpected. You had slept through a full eleven hours for a whole month without so much as a yelp and then suddenly you had a terrible night. You had just learned to walk that day and had given it many, many tries, each time you had added more steps or aimed a little better or acted a little less like a drunken sailor. You were flying through the process, and so, I hypothesize that your baby brain was on fire with information that night. The new skill was creating many huge connections and knocked your regular sleep habits out of sorts. So you asked for help.
And I answered. And you calmed. And you slept.
But this time the sleep was a little more like bunking with a jumping bean. You rolled and kicked and whacked me. But you slept through it all. You were just so *busy*. As I lay there wondering if I would get even just an hour more that night, it occured to me that you were doing what you used to do a year ago when you were inside me and would wake me up at 3am to remind me that you were very much there.
On those nights I imagined that this was your way of getting some you and me time. A chance for you to get my undivided attention and tell me all about how excited you were to be alive. So you'd kick and tumble and jab for a while before wearing yourself out and falling asleep again. Sometimes I would fall asleep too, and sometimes I wouldn't. Instead I'd lie awake both completely wrapped up in excitement for who you are and terror for the what-ifs that could come to be. I was a master of chasing a what-if in a neverending and torturous circle. Sometimes it was so bad, I'd have to wake up your dad to tell him that I couldn't sleep and he would ask me what I was thinking about and I would say all the scary things that were taunting me and he would say "Yeah, those are scary." And then he would wrap all of himself around me until my brain finally turned off and I slept. That, my dear, is anxiety.
But two nights ago, while you kept me awake with your sleep-acrobatics and I laid there absorbing the gut punches, not a single what-if entered my mind. Not one. Even though I was tired, even though life is so unpredictable, even though a really bad what-if actually came true and you ended up in the NICU, even though all of these things, I didn't hear any worries enter my mind that night.
I have a couple of theories as to why that is. One being that once you do one impossibly hard thing, your old fears kinda pale in comparison to what you have overcome and you live life with a newfound appreciation for mundane challenges and can rest in the knowledge that you can, in fact, make it through to the other side.
Another being that you have taught me that fear and worry steal the joy right out of life, and there is just so much joy to be had.
You don't have worries, you have moments of worry. And then you immediately ask for what you need and recieve the support you require. After which you are on to your next great trick. You live in the moment so completely. You ferociously delight in life. Your joy is reckless and you most often choose it over all other reactions, even when it doesn't appear to fit.
So I consciously do, too. Choose joy, that is. Because to choose to delight with you is to choose to stay in the moment, soaking in every detail of who you are and what you're like right now. And you are perfect. One whole year of perfection in every way.