It’s been a while since I recorded any “rocking chair thoughts.” However, tonight they are too strong to leave unvoiced. So though it’s 2:00 am, here I go.

Last week, Scotland slept through the night every night. This week, he’s returned to waking at 1:30-2:00ish and again at 5:00. At first I found myself a bit annoyed: “Really, you can do it, Why are you SOOO hungry?!” But each night after I have sat there holding him in my arms, rocking, his growing body wrapped around me, I’ve softened and thought, What a precious time.

Like many of you, my mother often read me the book “Love you forever” by Robert Munsch.  I don’t remember liking it any more than any other book. In fact, I remember feeling a bit uncomfortable about the front cover, which featured a toilet. Regardless, I’ve been amazed at how many times I’ve thought about that book since having Scotland. Munsch hits on a sentiment that I didn’t know possible before having my own child- the powerful enduring love of a mother. The book features a mother who rocks her little boy, over and over, whispering to him “I’ll love you forever, I’ll love you for always, for ever and always my baby you’ll be.” She continues to rock him as he grows into a toddler, a teen, even a grown man. As a child, that part always seemed strange- a little old lady rocking a grown man, so silly. Now, I weep as I think that some day my little baby will be all grown. Most likely he’ll be much bigger than me. Rocking him won’t be so easy. In fact, it would be silly. Yet, I have this feeling that I will still want to. That he will still be my baby at heart.

I write tonight to tell my future Scotland that “I love you forever, I love you for always, for ever and always my baby you’ll be.”

A friend asked how motherhood was suiting me now, six months later. I responded that I love it, I’m really happy. Another friend joined in: “Really? Or are you just saying that?” But I really love it, especially when I’m true to myself. Sometimes I do what I should or ought to do. The things “they” tell me to do. Like tonight, I started off feeling a little guilting for “caving in” and getting up to feed Scotland. I should make him cry it out, I thought. Help him learn that nighttime is for sleeping. But that betrays my natural instinct, my instinct to love and nurture. I have to constantly decipher between Tradition, what I’ve seen other mothers do; Intellect, the things I’ve read I should do; and Instinct, the things I want to do. There’s a balance. I realized only after leaving my child with a babysitter the first time, that it was really something I wanted to do, for my marriage and for me. Other times, when I’ve “caved in” to my instincts I’ve been surprised how quickly guilt is replaced by happiness. Sure, maybe someday I’ll need to make my son cry it out at night. But the fact is, right now, I’m doing great. I’m not falling apart due to lack of sleep. I love those tender moments when it’s just me and him in the world. Maybe, I should do it for him. But it just doesn’t feel right.

I realize that I’m greatly blessed. Scotland is a happy, content, appreciative child. As of yet, I don’t feel like he’s taking advantage of me. He doesn’t demand more than he needs, and perhaps to my benefit, he’s not a particularly needy child. My sentiments might be very different if my child was very demanding. As it is, Scotland rarely calls on my patience. That might change. But today, I am grateful.

I am also grateful for my own Mother who is and was a powerful example of motherhood. She loves and loved being a Mother. There has never been a doubt in my mind that being a Mom is her deepest pride. Yes, she complained a lot about us kids and how naughty we were. She wasn’t that little domestic that was always at our beck and call, happily waiting in the kitchen with cookies when we came home from school. She was involved in a million things, and made it clear that Mom has important things to do. But she was always there when we needed her. I often think of her when I’m in my rocking chair. I can see her in my mind’s eye sitting in her own petite orangeish-brown rocker: rocking, reading to, or sitting listening as teenage me sat on the floor in front of her talking. I can pull up countless images of my Mother in that rocking chair, and each image, however blurred, carries with it these feelings of contentment and quiet joy. I’m grateful for the confidence and assurance her example has brought me as a Mother. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, they say. How blessed I am to have a tree of fulfillment in Motherhood to fall from.