a naturally occurring haiku

After a full day of festivities celebrating Sebastian in all the ways a newly turned 3-year-old would love, it was finally bedtime. 

Every boy jammied.
Every tooth brushed.
Every book read. 

Jason was with the big three singing the songs, giving the animal kisses, doling out the extra hugs. I was with Eli, nursing him, trying not to doze off with him, rocking him before putting him in bed. 

And then it hit me like a sledge hammer to the gut [I know that sounds dramatic, but sometimes emotions are a tad dramatic and who am I to fight it]: This would be the last time I would go through this bedtime routine with my baby before he turns one the next day. In the midst of all the things Sebastian today, I hadn't given Eli's birthday even a passing thought until this moment. And did it ever hit hard.

He will be the same baby tomorrow. I will put him in his bed tomorrow night just one day older, no tangible difference in development or disposition, no quantifiable change in any way.

And yet. And yet, it will be completely different.

The first year getting to know someone can be life changing. Every time God gives you a new baby, there is this utterly satisfying realization of "Life will never be the same," and I can't help but revel in it. The Little Things, day in and day out, somehow become the Big Things I Never Want to Change. The newborn days turn to infant weeks, turn to baby months; rolling becomes sitting, becomes crawling, becomes toddling; coos transition into giggles, transition into babbling, transition into "Is that a word??" 

And then, suddenly, it is about to be one entire year since you first met, face to face, this bundle of goodness and wholeness in the squishiest of packages. Just one last bedtime routine. One last time of placing your drowsy baby into his crib before he celebrates his first trip around the sun. 

It hit me hard as I realized this, while literally in the middle of placing him into his bed. Did I lift him out again to walk with him a bit longer, snuggle him one last time? Did I awkwardly manage to pick up my phone off the floor with my toes and maneuver it into my non-dominant-baby-bearing hand so I could take one last picture of my drowsy mere-hours-away-from-being-one baby? Did I nudge him awake so I could whisper how much I love him and kiss every part of his soft face?

Spoiler alert: I did.

Eli,
You are joy. You are determination. You are contentment. I hope life continues to amaze you with its wondrous discoveries. I hope you always know in your heart and feel in your soul the love we have for you. I hope you know I will forever chuck you under your chins [until you get embarrassed and ask me to stop]. Never stop chasing after good [and Puma]. You are indescribably loved and wanted and treasured.
Love,
mama

it is the last night
putting my baby to bed
before he turns one