On the Eve of Your First Birthday

Tonight was a rarity.

Daddy always puts you to bed.

Every night after dinner, we watch “a movie” of your brother’s choice—usually Bluey—and start to wind down in preparation for bed. You sit happily in Daddy’s lap drinking your bottle, as Wyatt chatters on about the episode we’re watching—that he’s seen twenty-seven times. I’m usually upstairs, pulling out clothes for the next day, pajamas and diapers to change you both into or downstairs cycling. After about twenty minutes, I return to the living room and slump down next to Wyatt, who usually begins his nightly negotiation for later bedtimes; “One more Bluey, Mummy. One more.”

At about that point, you start to rub your eyes and slump into Daddy’s shoulders; his cue to take you upstairs and put you to bed.

But tonight, Daddy needed to finish up something for work so we swapped.

I carried you—and the last dregs of your bedtime bottle—upstairs to your bedroom, laid you down on the changing table and started wrestling you into your pjs. When I say wrestle, I mean wrestle. We started strapping you down to the changing table after you literally jumped off it a few weeks back. I can still hear the sound your body made when it hit the floor. It still makes my heart stop. Now, Daddy has mastered the art of deflection; he draws you attention away from the nuisance of being changed—one that you obviously hate—by making you laugh hysterically. I haven’t quite mastered this yet, but I tried my best and got you fully dressed in your onesie alligator pajamas in under two minutes flat.

But it wasn’t quick enough; you wanted to be picked up and picked up immediately. You started yelling and screeching, reaching towards me and straining against the buckled strap across you belly. “Alright impatient boy!” I said as I picked you up. I carried you to your doorway to look down into the living room. You looked downstairs to Wyatt—who was completely engrossed in Bluey—and silently waited for his attention to shift up towards us. Eventually it did; “Night night, Fin,” he said, blowing a kiss and waving at us. You returned the wave. We turned back into your room and you reached for the light switch. With your chubby little fingers, you flicked down the switch—your new magic trick, compliments of Daddy.

I stepped further into your room and towards your rocking chair—that belonged to your great grandfather, Steiny. I sat down in it, shifted you to a comfortable position in my lap and picked up your bottle. Sleepily, you quickly finished the bottle and looked over my arm, towards your crib. That is your “Mummy put me in my crib,” look. Knowing my place, I shifted my weight and started to stand.

Then I paused and thought better of it.

I sat back further in Pop’s rocker and snuggled you in to my chest. I turned on your sound machine, plopped your favorite pacifier into your mouth and started to rock back and forth. Your bedtime is all about routine—Daddy’s thing—and this was a curveball. You arched your back and pulled away from me, looking towards your crib. Again, a “Put me in my crib now, Mummy,” look.

But then I started to sing.

Sing the lullaby I used to sing to you when you were small.

The song that always calmed you back to sleep.

The same song I sang to Wyatt.

The song that Marmie sang to me when I was a baby.

One verse and your body instantly relaxed. You reached down for my hand and curled your fingers around my index finger. You looked up at me, your eyelids fluttering with sleep. You nuzzled into my chest and allowed yourself to drift off to sleep. I sat there, rocking and singing to you, savoring the stolen moments. Imprinting them to memory, to recall in years to come.

Because tomorrow, my Finlay, you will be one.

My baby, my second and last, won’t be such a baby anymore. And moments like these—where you’ll let me hold you, feel your little body’s warmth against mine and rock you to sleep—are fleeting. In fact, this may be one of the last times.

My mind started to wander to this time last year. How low and scared I was. How inadequate I felt when it came to every aspect of my life, and the fear building in my heart that I couldn’t be enough for two kids—hell, I didn’t think I was enough for even myself! My heart was in constant turmoil—split between excitement for a new baby and dread over the chaos my life would be consumed by. It was awful.

But thankfully, the moment you, my Finlay Robert, came into the world—on May 6th, 2022 at 1:53pm—all my doubts and fear disappeared. Because you were perfect. A dream baby. True, your birth rivaled your brother’s for drama—an epidural wearing off sure does speed things along :/—but you were content and wonderful. And always have been—except when you’re hungry. You got to experience so much more at a young age—you were barely a week old when you went to your first restaurant; Wyatt was over a year—and your immunity was constantly tested—Covid, RSV and the flu hit you all in a seven-week span—but your dimpled-smile rarely left your face. Wyatt LOVED you from the moment he laid eyes on you. He still does. You have completed our family in every possible way and I can’t imagine our lives without you.

I thank God for you, Fin. This year has flown because I enjoyed being a mother in a way I couldn’t allow myself with Wyatt. Because this time, I knew I could do it. In just one year, you have taught me so much about myself and about motherhood, and given me the confidence to say, “I’m a good mom.” Yeah, I still have my tough moments of doubt but your happy face cools all those fears.

So I rocked back and forth, allowing my head to drift against the rocker back. I sang on, smiling through the words and held you a little tighter to my chest.

Tomorrow we will celebrate.

Happy Birthday to us.