Dear Charlie, A minute ago, you taught me something invaluable. A minute ago, you imparted some of your baby wisdom on me and left me feeling nothing short of euphoric.
We were sitting together in the family room glider enjoying one of our rare afternoon moments alone as I nursed you and caught up on my DVR. You fell asleep in my arms as you often do when we get a quiet time to nurse, and I turned off the TV and began to contemplate how I would go about laying you down without waking you so that I could return to checking emails, wrapping gifts, cleaning off my desk and making a number of important phone calls.
I had so many things to do, so many plans for a productive afternoon. How good it would feel to check things off the old to-do list, to move about the quiet house without any children needing me.
But you had something else in mind. You decided it would be just the right time to grab my finger and smell sweet and be soft and still and peaceful. You decided I shouldn’t get up, I shouldn’t turn on the TV, I shouldn’t search for my book or my laptop or the grocery list. You decided that the only truly urgent, pressing matter we had to attend to was the business of holding each other close. The business of just being Charlie and Mommy alone together in the easy chair at three in the afternoon on a cold, blustery March day.
Initially, when you finished nursing, I thought, “What I wouldn’t give to just have a few minutes to read my book in peace.” But then, it occurred to me as you sleepily stroked my finger and I gently rubbed your tiny forehead, that years from now when I have all the time in the world to read my book, I will find myself sitting in this same easy chair thinking, “What I wouldn’t give to just be able to hold the soft baby hand of my little Charlie just one more time.”
Your dad and I were talking last night about poor little Charlie who spends so much time in his swing while we tend to the needs of a demanding, curious, mischievous little Finny. You certainly don’t get the face time Finny got when he was an infant. We don’t have the time to stare at you and admire you for hours and we can’t always run right to your side the moment you start crying. You are having to learn from a very young age to be patient and independent and go with the flow. I think, I hope these will end up being valuable lessons for you that will shape you into someone who is able to take life as it comes and be content with the little joys that come your way.
Right now, at not quite three months old, you seem to be delighted when you discover a bright light shining down on you from the ceiling fan or when you discover that you have the ability to bring your two chubby hands together right in front of your nose or when you notice that adorable baby with the strawberry birthmark staring back at you from the convex mirror on your baby swing. You’re such a sweet little thing, my Charlie. You don’t complain much and it only takes a glance in your direction to get you to open that charming duck mouth in a wide smile and coo.
And you’re wise, little Charlie, because today, just a few minutes ago, you taught me a little thing about delight. That it’s not big or expensive or time-consuming and that there’s a fat chance it’ll ever have a checkbox beside it on one of my to-do lists. It’s simple and sweet and unexpected. It’s just a small moment with you in the easy chair that I will remember someday years from now as I look up from a page of my book to stare out the window and try to conjure up the delicate texture of the back of your hand and the gentle joy of just having a moment to hold you close.
I love you, Charlie.
Love,
Mommy
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