The Lucky Mama

I was a lucky mama last night. And I'm saying that in a completely non-ironic way. I did feel truly lucky last night. Perhaps it was the glow of the prematurely erected Christmas tree (sans ornaments -- I'm insisting that they wait until Thanksgiving weekend). Perhaps it was merely beyond-overtired giddiness. Or maybe it was that I was completely under the influence of love.

You see, just as I was getting ready to write a the conclusion to an uninspired blog post for Patch.com (I submitted something else because it was so... blech...), Scott and I heard Willa's cry pealing over the baby monitor.

He snuck upstairs to retrieve her and attempted to comfort her as he continued to draft the set for the opera he's designing. She was having none of it, screaming louder and louder. He tried to feed her. She got about halfway through the bottle before shrieking and shoving it away. I abandoned my putrid writing and gathered her into my arms, where she continued to wail. We dosed her with Tylenol, thinking that maybe those sore, sore baby gums were ready to erupt teeth. And still she cried. I changed her diaper. She still cried. I burped her (again). She still cried. Finally, she settled into a whimpering half-sleep in my arms.

It was midnight by then. Scott went to bed, kissing my forehead as he stumbled drowsily up the stairs. I decided to stay downstairs with her to keep her siren from waking the rest of the family. Each time I moved, she moaned and rubbed her face into my shoulder.

Finally, she began snoring lightly into m neck. I gently laid her into the infant swing and rushed to take out my contact lenses and get my pajamas and a pair of thick socks on. Just as I crept back into the room, she woke again, angry and hurting somewhere.

I held her close, rhythmically rocking her in the silence of the house. She struggled fitfully against sleep, cursing in baby-cry with eyes clenched shut, legs kicking emphatically to punctuate her thoughts.

I smelled her baby scent, burying my nose in her mohawk, her fine hair tickling my cheek. I kissed her softly, laying my face close to hers, her breath finally relaxing into a shallow song. For three hours I comforted her alone in the night until she woke fully, ready to eat. I fed her, then she dropped off peacefully from exhaustion, plunging into a deep sleep, limbs liquid with relaxation. I finally laid her in her bed at 3:30, crawling under my own covers with a leaden thump, my pillow catching my head as it landed, already asleep.

I suppose I could have been frustrated that I had comforted this child for five hours with only brief respite to change clothes. I suppose I could have resented the rest of my soundly sleeping family. I suppose that I could have cried along with her, keening my sadness for not being able to help her.

But I knew that I was comforting her. I knew that she felt safe and loved in my arms. I knew that there was no place she would have rather been than held close to me, my pulse and breathing calmly guiding her to sleep. And I didn't want to put her down. I wanted to smell her scent, feel her movements as close to me as I could. It's been nearly seven months since she was born and my babies are rapidly growing and changing. I felt the preciousness of that moment stretching into a small lifetime.

I needed last night with my Willa. I needed to watch her blink in amazement at all of the lights on the Christmas tree, just the two of us, swaying in front of it, dancing to an unheard tune. I need to hold on to her babyhood for as long as she lets me, because she is the baby of my babies.

This morning as I groggily shuffled through my closet in the nursery, both girls were waking in their cribs. Juliet started chattering, as she always does, and Willa began to coo. I peered over the rail at her, my sleepy morning smile meeting hers. She raised her arms, saying "Ah-la-loo" as she crinkled her fathoms-deep eyes. It's possible that I misheard, but I believe that warm coo sounded like, "I love you."

"Ah-la-loo," too.