For most of my pregnancy, I was unable to interact as closely with my son. For a while, I would tell him, “I’m sorry. Mommy can’t play on the floor. Mommy is too pregnant.” It broke my heart after more than two years of it being him and me in a daily love fest of affection and touch and eye contact and laughter and dance parties and books… And my heart broke all over as he stopped asking for me. We have probably hugged less than twenty times in the past several months. I haven’t lain beside him to help him fall asleep in ages. He doesn’t even want me to hold him, to soothe him when he’s hurt. It has been hard.
But tonight I helped him get his jammies on. Tonight I brushed his teeth. We pratfalled on his bed. We read a book. Tonight, for the first time in probably seven months, I turned his light off, crawled into bed beside him, and told him stories about race cars, monster trucks, and a little green tractor, and I listened to his breathing get deeper, and I pulled his blanket over his arm and whispered, “Good night. I love you.”
It was everything.