The Sweet Spot

Weekends at the cabin are wonderful and also a little bit awful. They're wonderful for the lake views, for how the night fires make your sweatshirts smell, and for watching Henry squeal when he throws rocks, swims, rides in the boat or basically does anything else near that lake. But they're awful for the disruption they cause in my little guy's routine; particularly sleeping. He woke up on Friday night (Saturday morning?) around 1am and flopped around in his Pack'n'Play which is adjacent to my side of the bed. He kicked the wall, talked to his Puppy and poked me in the eye. By three in the morning, and with Dan somehow still snoring next to me, I really wanted to lean over and yell at him, "GO BACK TO SLEEP!", but instead I shrugged on my zip-up, lifted him out of portable crib and dragged us both out to one of the rockers facing the lake in the living room.

I regretted my decision instantly when Hank started pointing towards the lake we couldn't even see through the blackness beyond the deck doors in front of us. Surprisingly, there are not as many reasons as you would think for why you can't go swimming at 3am other than, "Momma doesn't want to," and, "You'll wake up the fishies". I'm not even sure that second one even counts. I started singing his favorite song-of-the-moment to try and distract him from wiggling out of my lap for what I can only imagine was to go searching for his Thomas swim trunks. Luckily, he really was exhausted because I felt his body go limp against mine before I reached the end of my second verse.

Soon, his Nuk fell out of his mouth and tumbled down my arm, which meant he was sound asleep. He was wearing an over-sized t-shirt as pajamas. It covered his elbows and almost cleared his knees. It made him seem so little, but then I realized that his curly hair (which has filled in so much this summer) was resting against my cheek and his stretched out, chubby legs made his feet dangle off the edge of my folded knees. He was easily nestled against half of my body length in that chair. It made me realize that he's hit that sweet spot - that point when he's not quite yet a big boy but he's certainly not a baby anymore. 

After gently rocking there for another fifteen minutes or so, I knew that I could have safely carried him back to our room without risk of waking him, but I didn't. I thought about how I couldn't remember the last time he fell asleep in my arms like that. I thought about how one day he won't want to. And while I tried to convince myself how that couldn't possibly be true, I visualized how it would look if my +6'2" brother wanted to snuggle with my 5'8" mom and laughed quietly. Okay fine, clearly Henry would want to, but eventually he will be too big for my lap. Wrapped up in my thoughts, I startled when Henry unconsciously laced his little fingers with mine, and I settled back into the chair. I was tired, and slightly uncomfortable, but I didn't want to leave that spot.

Eventually I noticed that it wasn't black outside the doors anymore. I could see the opposite side of the lake and the sky had turned rosy. I could hear boat engines turning over down the shore with guys getting ready to go out fishing. I wished for it to stay dark so that I could sit there with my boy forever. But willing the sunrise away was as silly as thinking we could stay in that sweet spot indefinitely. The sun did come up, and when it did, the sunlight made Henry squint his sleeping eyes before he slowly stirred awake.

He sat up, blinked around the room and then turned to me - "Mom!" he said softly. And then, almost like a gift, he turned his body and nestled in that space right under my neck and just sat with me, playing with my locket that he loves so much (because it has his and his dad's pictures in it) and gave me a few more minutes with my baby. All too soon he hopped down to the floor and turned to face me. I stood up, he reached up and took my hand, and we headed towards our room together; his feet padding quickly against the floor to keep up with my stride, the "swishing" of his diaper was the only sound I could or wanted to hear.

Weekends at the cabin are wonderful and awful at once. They're wonderful because I get to watch the sunrise over the lake, sharing a chair with my sleeping son. They're awful because every time we go he gets older and older. Why can't we just stay in that sweet spot forever?

please stop growing up