Babying the Baby

Every once in a while Lily will throw her pacifier out of her crib.  And then cry hysterically.  Last night was one of those times.  I know that what I'm supposed to do is give it back to her and then leave the room.  But her tear-stained cheeks and out-stretched arms make that impossible.

I scooped her up and told her I would sing her one more song.  She put her head on my shoulder and waited for her favorite, Jesus Loves Me This I Know.  As I quietly sang and swayed back and forth next to her crib, I could feel her eye lashes brushing against my arm and I thought, I don't want this to end. 

Lily is my baby, but she's not much of a baby anymore.  She turns two on Saturday.  She's starting to talk more and more everyday.  She still has a pudgy tummy and chubby thighs, but if memory serves, it was between two and three that my other two slimmed down and lost the last of their baby fat.  She will cuddle with me, but only on her terms.  And she rarely gives kisses anymore.  They have become a precious commodity in our house.

So, as I held her last night, all the while knowing I was starting the cycle of crying for attention we had fought so hard never to start with Sophie or Max, I couldn't help but think that this was my last chance.  Pretty soon she won't want to be held anymore.  And soon after that she'll be too big to hold, anyway.  This is my last chance to sing Jesus Loves Me into the ear of my own child and have her listen rather than roll her eyes and tell me that my singing stinks. 

Is it wrong to want to savor these moments?  I know that it often means overstepping into the realm of spoiling the baby.  And I suppose that's what makes the baby of the family the baby.  The littlest.  The cutest.  But also the biggest brat?  The one who always gets her way.  I can see now how easily that happens when parents, like me, want to hold on to the last one.  Want to make it, babyhood, that is, last far longer than they would have with the others. 

After losing Lily yesterday, I couldn't help but hold her a little bit longer than I would have otherwise.  And I couldn't help but think about two years ago, when I would nurse her in the middle of the night and she would fit in the crook of my arm.  And I couldn't help but think about two years from now, when she's too big to hold and too busy to cuddle.  After just one more flit of her eyelashes on my skin I laid her down in her crib and read her one more book (bee-bo) and sang her one more song.  And then closed the door as she started to cry, still wanting one more of everything.