Does It Ever Grow Old?

I watch my child sleeping.  He looks so fragile, so small in that big bed.  I look around his room and see where the mobile used to hang over his crib.  I smile at the robot stickers that surround the framed picture of his first footprint.  The rocker where I fed him night after night has been removed to make room for dragon toys, early reader books and a baseball trophy.  To me he will always be my baby boy, my precious gift that I never thought I would receive.  There are no signs of the time he spent in the NICU, not in him anyway.  In my heart and mind, those days are never far away.  I do my best to push them aside and see the strong boy I have in front of me now.

I listen to my child sleeping.  His rhythmic breathing is music to my ears.  The soft snoring that comes from his pillow now and then is a blessing.  “His lungs healed well” I think to myself.  He is healthy, yet I listen intently every night to hear the breath go in and out of him, as if he is breathing life into me.

I move close and touch my child as he is sleeping.  The moment my hand touches his shoulder it is as if an energy fills me, his energy.  I want to lie down next to him and hold him in my arms hour after hour.  Like a magnet my hands are drawn to him, struggling to pull away.  I pull the sheet up, kiss his temple and smile.

I stand in the doorway as my child sleeps.  It’s late.  I have no desire to leave.  I could stand here and watch him all night.  Each sigh and wiggle is like a symphony of blessings.  It’s the same, night after night.  Yet, I never tire of the routine.   In the deepest part of my heart you will find my sleeping child.

09/21/2010