Just a Boy and His Mom

This is one of those rare nights. You sit in the rocker one hand tucked under my armpit, the other pressed firmly to your chest. I rub and pat your back just like my mom used to do. I can almost feel her doing it in a wooden rocker. I'm sure it wasn't comfortable. She didn't care. Your breathing is steady which screams good health to my active brain. You’ve been a little steadier since October 9 when they wheeled you in for tube surgery. That was a good decision.

It can wait. I tell myself. The pile of laundry that continues to grow halfway to the ceiling, the dishes that need washed, the dogs that need let out, the dog hair that needs swept, the kitchen that needs scrubbed, the TV shows that need watched. It can all wait because here we sit with only the light of the moon rocking. You are in a deep slumber now. I’m wide awake thinking about how good it feels to have you asleep in my arms. I’m wide awake thinking about what a miraculous creation you are. Half of me. Half of your dad.

You are miraculous. And to think, tomorrow you will wake up and squeal when I walk in the door.
“HI, MOMMY, GOOD MORNING. HI MOMMY. GOOD MORNING. WHERE’S DADDY?”

And here I thought I’d never be a morning person.

Here we sit. Just a boy and his mom rocking.

Just a boy and his mom.