The cries pierce my sleep.  I wait it out a few moments and listen to determine if they are the cries of a momentary disturbance or if they are the cries of nighttime need.  I walk to the room and rub his back.  His arm reaches around to touch mine.  Finding my hand, he wraps his fingers around mine.  The cries cease and in the silence, he holds on and finds his calm again.

Eight months old, I am still his refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.  One of the greatest privileges of parenthood is getting to be the peace my little one needs – to be the arms that make everything alright.  During the early months when the needs are concrete and specific (food, diaper, sleep), parenthood means being the one to anticipate, notice, and satisfy.

When the oldest wakes now, I venture down to his room the same I did when he was young.  Now, though, there are some night terrors where I struggle to break him out of the crying.  I hold him close in his little bed and try to whisper those words, ancient and sacred, “Do not fear, I am here with you.”

And yet the words and my presence do not hold the magic power they once did.  Right before my eyes, my oldest is growing up.  The chubby cheeks are dissipating and his physique is more “boy” than toddler.  As his vocabulary grows, he is becoming more and more aware of his surrounding.  He is beginning to taste the Great Sadness Continue reading