Wish upon a star

While Max did dangle the carrot in front of me for awhile by napping effortlessly in his crib, alas, it was just a phase, and he is now back to dozing on my person. If I am going to be completely honest, however, I must say that I enjoy this time, as I know it will be gone sooner than I could ever imagine. Furthermore, and something I have come to find quite significant about "our" nap schedule, I too am able to have the time to rest my body and my mind from all the chaos and 'to-do's' that motherhood brings.

What now seems like years ago, back when I was registering for baby stuff, I researched and added (read: copy-pasted from another mom's registry) a simple night light in the shape of a star. It looked sweet online - providing a pale yellow glow, the shape of it soft, like a star you might see in the pages of a Pooh storybook. Fitting enough, I didn't give it too much more thought and gleefully clicked "add to wishlist".

Some ten months later, I now rock with baby in my arms in his nursery, kept cool amidst the encroaching heat by the overhead fan and some gentle assistance by the muted blues on the walls. I pan the room: there's the tree painted on his wall, branches reaching out to hover over and protect the quote displayed over his crib ("Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We will get there some day." -Winnie the Pooh). Then there's his little book shelf filled with pages of stories, letters, numbers, and imagery that he will absorb on a different level each time he revisits them. And there, glowing near the carpet and providing a soft illumination of this baby haven, is the star night light. As I rock my sleeping son, I can hear only the whirr of the fan and the rhythmic creaking of the glider. My eyes rest on the night light, and I am transported. Not in the sense that I am looking to leave the bliss that is holding my baby boy as he dreams, but just as his mind is able to drift away to wherever it may, so is mine for that 75 minutes. For a few of those minutes, I am back in my own childhood room in Northbrook, Illinois, laying on my bed playing with my stuffed animals and listening out for the "call" that our neighborhood game of Capture the Flag is about to begin. More minutes might be spent strolling in the sand on the shore of Lake Michigan.  Other minutes, I am playing cards with my dad at the kitchen table while he teaches me words in foregin languages. Or I am once again meeting my husband for the first time. My mind gets to dance from memory to memory, and I am there. Amidst a schedule that is jam-packed with bottle washing, diaper changing, and stroller pushing from this thing to that, these 75 minutes are filled with places and spaces I will always hold right up against my heart.

In the span of eight short months, Max's nursery has become my refuge of sorts, and my spot in that glider gives me a vantage point I will never forget for as long as I live. His painted tree, his quote, his book shelf. I know that when that small block of sun dances its way across the shadowy wall and is illuminating the "W" in 'Winnie', it is 5:30pm and my little boy should begin to stir any minute now. Our minds will converge to the present, from wherever they were, and the nursery will come into focus once again. I will stand up with him in my arms, kiss the top of his head, and out the door we will go.