Turn around, turn around

Tonight I rocked my baby. Or, rather, I rocked my three-year-old, who weighs more than 30 pounds and whose large feet hang considerably over the arm of the rocking chair where I have held, rocked, and nursed my babies since the arrival of the first one 8 years ago. He woke up, crying and disoriented, and for once welcomed my offer to rock and sing. Within minutes he was back asleep, rosy lips parted, just grazing the edge of my breast. Our lullaby ended, I held him silently in the darkness and wondered--where did all my babies go?

The voices of older mothers echoed in my thoughts: "Enjoy this time; it will be over before you know it." I hear myself repeating those sentiments to younger mothers, even as I struggle to comprehend them coming true in my own life. How can eight straight years of being pregnant or nursing--and sometimes both--pass so quickly?

Of course, in the moment, nothing passes in the blink of an eye. The countless evenings when Scott has worked late, leaving me with cranky, clingy babies, are all too vivid. I am intimately acquainted with the slow insanity of watching the clock and willing someone, anyone to come and relieve me from the constant, relentless needs of a toddler. I have wondered how I will maintain my composure, let alone my housekeeping, with everyone in the house all day, all summer.

Yet tonight I held my baby, marveling at the strange paradox of parenting--how days can be so long and years so brief. The lines from a favorite Judith Viorst poem mirrored my thoughts: And no more babies will disrupt/The tenor of my days,/Nor croup and teething interrupt my sleeping./I swear to you I wouldn't have it/Any other way./It's positively stupid to be weeping. Chagrined, I thought of how often I bemoan the fact that everyone NEEDS me so much; how overwhelmed I feel by the sheer volume of their demands. I recall how this independent child ceremoniously spat out the breast a little more than a year ago, effectively weaning ME, and wish, just for an evening, to be needed like that again.

Tomorrow will come with this same child at my heels, shadowing my every move, needing assistance in the bathroom approximately every thirty minutes, and testing every instruction I give him. Most likely I will look forward to his nap and bedtime as much as any other day. But I hope I can also focus on the leg hugs, nose kisses, and impossibly enthusiastic spirit of this little boy, because this stage, too, really will be over one day--before I know it.