I laid him down in the crib--a crib becoming all-together
familiar to him because of naps taken in it of late. But this time as I laid
him down, it was dark; only a small lamp on the first 3-way setting cast a
small glow about the big room.

But he’ll be so lonely,
I thought, unable to walk away.

That’s ridiculous,
came the practical response in me. His
brother and sister are right in the room with him; and, besides, he’ll be
asleep; how can he be lonely when he’s sleeping?

I’ve been lonely when
I’m in a crowd full of people, and I’ve been lonely when I’m asleep. So he can
be lonely, came my stubborn rebuttal. I gently rubbed his belly and admired
the big, soft eyes that gazed up at me.

He’s been so good about going to sleep, without even a
whimper, of late. It makes sense to move him from the too-small basket by my
bedside to the crib upstairs that’s been empty for several weeks now. It’s just
that I hate to do it. I know he’ll be okay. I know he really won’t know the
difference… not really.

But I’ll know the
difference.

I’ll know it like I knew it when I saw him inch his way
across the living room floor today. I’ll know it like I knew it as I watched
him laughing at his older brother’s antics. I’ll know it like I knew it when
I paused at the dinner table tonight long enough to really gaze upon my two
oldest children who are now able to carry on conversations and be silly with
one another.

Yes, he won’t mind that the close-to-Mama
bassinet-sleeping days are done, but I will. He doesn’t even know that we’ll
never get those nights back, and one day when he does know, he probably won’t
care. But I care… I care a whole, whole lot.

I’ve only been a Mama for three and a half years… so how can
my heart already hurt this much as I watch my children leave things behind?