Rock on

I rocked Charlie to sleep for his nap yesterday. And as his breath got slower and deeper, his limbs went slack, and his face became totally serene, I thought, "I'm not going to get to do this for much longer." And I was a little sad. And surprised to be sad. You see, naptime used to be stressful because I would have to rock or nurse Charlie or drive him around in the car (the only plus to that is now, if he falls asleep in the car, I can get him out of his car seat, take off his boots and coat, and put him in his crib -- and he stays asleep!) to get him to sleep. Many times the only way he would stay asleep was if there was a boob in his mouth or he was snoozing on my lap and I was rocking, rocking, endlessly rocking. Now he expects his nap, and usually all it takes is a few stories, some songs in the rocking chair, and a few pats on the back in his crib to get him off to sleep. In the early days, I used to fantasize about such independence. I rejoiced when it finally happened. But yesterday it was nice to hold my little boy, who is no longer a baby, and rock him to sleep without feeling frustrated (because all the sleep advice I was getting wasn't working), resentful (so much for napping when the baby naps), guilty (for feeling resentful), and totally exhausted (because I wasn't sleeping during the day or all that much at night). What a difference a year can make. And meds. And therapy. Lots and lots of therapy.