Miraculously, it’s calm and I have nowhere to go and nothing to do besides hold Baby and marvel with wonder at how much I love this delightful and determined little person

Today I held Baby. Baby — almost not a baby — is already two years old.

By day, Baby is a Person, opinionated, entitled, and insistent. By day, Baby is Mischief, gleeful and purposeful in everything he does. By day, Baby is Energy, never walking if he can run, never sitting still if he can climb. By day, Baby is Affectionate, enthusiastically hugging his older siblings when they walk in from school, waiting atop the stairs with his arms outstretched. By day Baby is Commanding, imperiously bossing the rest of us around (with surprising effectiveness) while asking permission through adorably ill-concealed demands.

But now, in the evening stillness, Baby is mellow and mushy, cuddly and content in my arms. So I put him to sleep the way his father or I do every night, singing with him in the rocking chair and tucking him into the crib.

But tonight, when I tuck him in the crib and leave the room, Baby begins to cry. He doesn’t stop crying, so I break the sacred rule and take Baby out of his crib for a second chance.

Miraculously, the girls are at a neighbor. Miraculously, the boys are reading quietly on the couch. Miraculously, it’s calm and I have nowhere to go and nothing to do besides hold Baby and marvel with wonder at how much I love this delightful and determined little person.

Baby is sleepy in my arms, his skin slightly sweaty. His springy curls, which have a life of their own by day, sway gently to the rhythm of the rocking chair. His eyes stare seriously into mine, but they slowly begin to shutter and lose their focused look. We rock and we sing, Baby answering softly when I check if he’s awake, eyes sliding in and out of focus until his eyelids remain closed and his breathing is deep and even.

I’m always running, always doing, never sitting still alone with my thoughts. This moment is a G-d given gift, a chance to stop and simply feel myself. And so I do. The thoughts float gently through my head on their own, one drifting into the next in this blank space that Baby has gifted me.

I’ve wondered many times at the intense awe I feel at each of Baby’s milestones and accomplishments, which have followed each other with blessed and astonishing rapidity almost since birth.

Why did Hashem make it matter so much that babies are so impossibly delicious? How is it that intelligent adults can spend endless time analyzing and enjoying everything about babies?

It saddens me to think that when Baby is grown, the exact way he softly harmonizes while I cuddle him at bedtime won’t be of any consequence to anyone. What’s the point of babies, then?

In this moment, though, I just know. The answer is just a part of me and a part of Baby, now and always.

I think of how rare and blessed is this quiet moment, how this one moment in time is infinity. I think of a friend whose preteen Baby faces a long battle against disease. I think of a friend who is waiting for a Baby. I think of a friend who has lost one.

I think of my other Babies, who are confident and independent, just as I once hoped but couldn’t imagine they ever would be. I think of this Baby and how one day he’ll sap my emotional energy the way his older siblings do, and how loving him won’t be as free and uncomplicated and perfect as it is right now.

But for today, I’m his whole world and he is mine. And somehow, I can’t put sleeping Baby down just yet.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 733)