Ain’t Motherhood Grand?
Last night, R’s bedtime routine went something like this:
- I carried her upstairs and stuck her in the bathtub where I endured 20 minutes of splashing and intentional face plants into the bathwater,
- losing in the process about 10 years off my life and gaining at least 3 new gray hairs;
- managed to wrangle her slippery, squirmy, chubby body out of the bath and into a cozy towel,
- where she proceeded to pee;
- put her back in the tub for a quick wash down;
- diapered her and pajamaed her;
- settled into the comfy rocking chair in the stillness of the dim nursery,
- where I was serenaded by the 20-month-old version of Holy Holy Holy while gazing into her blue eyes;
- cradled her precious baby face close to my heart while the lower half of her body wriggled and thrashed about,
- until I got a foot in my eye;
- had my earring
ripped out of my earlobetugged mercilessly by inquisitive fingers;
- let her purposefully wipe her snotty nose on my favorite sweatshirt;
- finally gave up on the rocking chair and got up to pace approximately 2 miles in her 10′ X 12′ bedroom until my arms were numb and she finally succumbed to sleep;
- sat back down in the rocker with my sleeping baby and nestled my face into her soft, squishy baby cheek;
- inhaled the sweet, clean scent of Johnson’s Baby Bath and nuzzled her silky fine baby hair;
- finally lay her, sleeping soundly, in her familiar crib;
- stood over her to admire her perfection before tip-toeing out into the hall and gently closing the door.
And I wouldn’t trade a second of it for the world. Not even the boogies on my sweatshirt.