Sitting in a dark room, rocking my youngest daughter back to sleep. She has been sick for the past few days, so we have both been up late into the night.
I hold her close and sink down deeper into my rocking chair.
It’s padded and soft. I quietly rock back and forth with Mia snuggled in my arms. Soothing for her. Soothing for me.
I remember my mom’s rocking chair. Delicately carved wood. Classic in color and ease in functionality.
We played on it as kids, but I can’t imagine it was comfortable for my mom. No built-in padding. No soft gliding motion. No squishy ottoman to stretch out tired legs.
It provided the simplicity of a swaying rhythm, which when in the arms of mom is all that is needed.
A few minutes have passed, she is softly breathing in my arms. Relaxed and sleepy once more.
I am enjoying the closeness of her. Her head against my chest; listening to my heartbeat.
She hugs her blanket.
Not too many moments like this anymore, she is usually moving a million miles a minute.
I lay her down in her crib. She is fast asleep.
A rainbow of tiny stars sparkle on her ceiling, beaming out from a fuzzy purple unicorn.
I pat the rocker with familiarity, thankful for the support.
Close the door.
Good night sweet girl.