Not long after Sawyer was born we had to part with our rocking chair.
It was the glider-type where the chair and ottoman slide in unison, unless it’s being climbed on by two 21 month-olds who are trying to touch their new baby brother’s eyeballs or slide him a Cheerio while he’s nursing. Soon my rocking chair turned into a prop for the toddler version of Cirque Du Soleil minus the grace, coordination and protective netting. The chair had to go.
Despite his rock-less life, Sawyer is a cuddling, rocking kind of little man. He will climb into my lap, wriggle his glasses up onto his nose and wait for me to sway a bit. Our new porch swing is my second chance at lulling him to sleep for a summertime nap before it is cold and he is grown.
We sneak in a few minutes almost every day, folding our time into the space where his nap once belonged. He debates between stretching out and curling up and twirls my hair with four year-old coordination and when I say “look how long your legs are!”
He says “they are two minutes long Mommy, two minutes.”
And I’m pretty sure they are.
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