Scene: Saturday, 4:11 p.m., our condo
Baby Boy needs to nap. Badly.
He is a great napper, normally. Goes down without a problem most of the time. But today we were out running errands during that crucial 2-3 p.m. window, and he didn’t sleep in the car. Now we are paying for it. Now he is so not a good napper.
He was sobbing in his room, and it was escalating into the Really Seriously Upset zone, so I went in. He was standing up in his crib, wearing just a diaper, a onesie, and socks. Hanging onto the bars, crying his little heart out. When I went over to him, he grabbed and yanked at my shirt
like an overzealous date until I picked up.
Then he wrapped his little arms around my neck and held on for dear life.
And I melted.
He’d never hung on like this before. Not this tightly. It was like every once of him was desperate to not be put down. I sang to him and rocked him, standing there next to his crib, and every time he sensed I MIGHT put him back down, he tensed up and clung even tighter.
I wanted to stand there and hold him forever. It’s what he wanted. It’s what I wanted, too. In the back of my mind, I knew that was a bad idea, but it is so hard to concentrate on practicality when someone wants you — and loves you — so very much.
I have learned, in these 7.5 months of parenthood, that you often have to do things you don’t want to do, because it’s in the best interest of your child. And this child really, really needed a nap.
I put him back in his crib.
He screamed. And kicked. And reached for me.
I kissed him and soother-ed him and turned his music back on.
And then I headed for the computer and began writing this post, because it is the only thing stopping me from going back in there and scooping him up. I think this is harder on me than it is on him.