Rocking

I had a moment with Harvey this evening, a nice one, a really beautiful one. It was bedtime, and these moments with Harvey do not generally fall into the category of "nice." As usual, upon my pronouncing "nigh-nigh time," he threw his head back in protest flinging his whole body vertical with the floor. Experience has taught me to hold my arm out to catch him mid-fling. This was a particularly powerful fling and the yells that followed were also on the louder end of average. I persisted in my goal though to get one child in bed, knowing that my quiet time or, in tonight's case, my time to watch the election coverage, would soon follow. He protested all the way to the rocking chair and then quieted almost immediately when I sat down and began to rock. And then he nestled in, and the rocking chair which needs oiling badly, creaked and rocked and creaked and rocked, his breathing settled and so did mine. And then, strange as it sounds, I felt like a fifty something (or sixty something) year old me was in the room watching us. Breathing in and out with me. Feeling the softness of this (our) baby's skin. Standing there with warmth and coolness with longing and with love. Right there in the room with me and Harvey and the rocking.