Lego Peace

About ten days after I found out I was pregnant, we went on a backpacking trip in the mountains of Northern California.  Each night, as I nestled in my sleeping bag, listening to the birds and the bugs, watching the clear night sky, I hugged my belly and talked to my teeny, tiny, little baby. I told him how much I loved him and wanted him, how much I couldn't wait to meet him.

Throughout my pregnancy, my son's most active moments were right when laid down for sleep and right when I woke in the morning (funny, that's somewhat still true today), and each night, and each morning,  I had time with him, just the two of us.

When Ari first arrived in the world, into the waiting arms of my husband, I held him against my chest for over four hours before any other hands touched him.  We were a family of three for the first time, and I was in awe of this tiny, perfect creature.

In his newborn days, Ari napped on my chest. I fell asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat and his soft breath. I still believe that the best sleep either of us got in those days was together, napping on the couch, breathing in each other.

The nights were quietest and belonged only to us.  He nursed, and I rubbed his back or touched his cheek. The sheer, warm babyness of him overwhelmed me, and I would whisper to him, telling him how much I loved him, how much I wanted him, how glad I was to have him in my life.  I cannot say that I miss sleepless nights, but I do miss the time I had with my son.

Toddler days are not quiet. Toddler naps don't happen snuggled on the couch.  Toddler days don't offer much in the way of reflection.

"Mommy."

"Yes, baby."

"Truck." (hands over Lego truck and walks away)

"You want me to play Legos with you?"

"Yaaaaaaah."

And so I get down on the floor and play with my son, stacking colorful blocks, vroom-vrooming the trucks.  I kiss his cheek, tell him I love him, that he's wanted, and that I'm so happy he's in my life.