Eleven months

Every night now, I nurse Isaac to sleep or to almost-sleep in my arms before I carry him into his room. His head goes down on my shoulder; he fits so perfectly against my neck. He sighs sleepily, heavily. He holds on now, my shirt in his little fists. Or he rests one hand on my left arm, the other hand on my chest.

I close the door behind us; he likes the room dark. I play the same CD for him every night. It's a different one than I used to play for Suzannah; each of my children have their own night music, songs that I associate with particular times in their lives. The songs hold an unbearable sweetness for me. I rock him in my arms, standing up, breathing in his sweet sleepy smell, kissing his warm head, kissing the back of his neck. A few times this last week, I've found myself tearing up -- because I want this moment to last forever, because someday I won't be able to hold him like this, because he sleeps better on his own now, because he's growing so fast, because I just want to keep and hold this, this this this. It is a strange and exhilarating blend of joy and grief.

I hold him for a long time. It's like slow dancing.

The same songs, every night.

Someday, somewhere beyond this moment, I know I will hear these songs again, and I already know how suddenly and deeply they will return me to these nights of holding my infant son in the dark, swaying with him as he snuggles against my shoulder. But for now, it's almost more than I can take to just lie him down, to let go.