Lord, help me remember these long and tiring days. Help me remember the lost socks and puffs stuck to couch cushions and wooden blocks on the bathroom floor. Help me remember what it’s like to have a house full of baby.
This sweet baby, this flesh of my flesh, this tiny piece of me, is everywhere.
And someday he won’t be. Someday he’ll be somewhere else, leaving a mess in a different house. I know this. I accept this. I am grateful for this. I am not raising a bird to stay in my nest forever; I am raising him to fly.
We are in the midst of a fleeting season where the days are long but the years are short, and because of this, I write it down as best I can and capture snippets in photographs, so that when my memory fades and my mind no longer works as well as it does today, I can revisit this season, this feeling, this house full of baby.
Today, I am writing down a few things I do not ever want to forget.
I don’t ever want to forget the sunny day we brought Everett home from the hospital. I wore my favorite black sweatpants with a cotton t-shirt, both soft to the touch, protecting my half-empty belly and fresh c-section scar. We drove calmly and carefully, never straying from the slow lane or speeding through yellow lights. We carried him through the front door and took him on an official house tour, even though he slept the entire time.
This is your home, baby. This is our home.
I don’t want to forget the first time we laid his teeny swaddled body in the bassinet, the beautiful piece of furniture that had sat empty in our bedroom for months. I don’t want to forget the skin-to-skin or the sleepy sighs or how I used to say, “you’re my baby!” over and over again.
I don’t want to forget our early mornings together, snuggled close, my heart beating perfectly in sync with his breaths. I don’t want to forget the way he babbles in the car from the back seat, totally confident in his statements, even though they make no sense to me. I don’t want to forget his obsession with stairs or the way he giggles when I say, “give momma a kiss!” and plant one on his baby lips.
I don’t want to forget the toys and puffs strewn about the floor, a sweet little trail to mark where Everett has been and what he has seen, the trail that makes my house feel more like a home than any pinterest project or fresh flower arrangement.
I don’t want to forget the way he smiles at me with a twinkle in his eye, or the way he looks at me when he’s standing against the coffee table, beaming with pride. I don’t want to forget our mornings at the kitchen table, me spoon feeding him banana puree while he wiggles his arms in the air with excitement. I don’t want to forget the poem I recite to him every night before he goes to sleep:
“Goodnight moon, goodnight room. Goodnight chair, goodnight bear. Goodnight noises everywhere. Goodnight baby. Goodnight momma. See you in the morning bright.”
I don’t want to forget 10:00pm, our nightly routine of quietly sneaking into his bedroom and replacing the blue blanket that has been twisted and cast aside in a fit of baby dreams.
I don’t want to forget today, this moment, as I write from bed while he naps, video monitor beside me on the nightstand capturing the stillness of his room. I don’t want to forget this feeling, this blessedness, this peaceful contentment and wholeness, the sight of the Johnny Jump-up in the doorway.
Lord, help me remember these long and tiring days.
Help me remember what it’s like to have a house full of baby.