A tear silently rolled down my cheek

as I rocked you to sleep this evening.

Your warm body, heavy in my arms—

a tiny arm draped around my neck,

gentle breath brushing across my shoulder.

I stood in the middle of your room—

the smallest peek of moonlight

slipping through the top of the blind…

just enough to light up your face

for me to see.

So restful.

So angelic.

So loved.

I’m not ready

to let go of these moments.

The gentle sound of water trickling

from the white noise machine.

If I could bottle up this moment, I would—

feel this, relive this,

over and over again.

The simplest moment in time,

yet the most magical:

you, asleep in my arms.

You moved into your own room this week.

Completely unphased,

you slept better than you had in weeks.

It was your father and I who struggled.

We miss having to creep into our room,

muffled whispers

as you lay next to our bed—

waking in the night

to hear your sweet breaths

and sleepy sounds.

We joked about moving into your room

just so we could be with you—

a joke with an underlying truth.

Our world,

in a tiny human body.

Although… you aren’t so tiny anymore.

When did you get so big?

The six-month milestone,

once so far in the distance,

is now just around the corner.

With every month that passes,

each milestone picture we take—

it’s bittersweet.

You’re growing,

you’re developing,

and I’m so proud…

but I can’t help but miss

the stages that have come before.

The tiny newborn we brought home—

so fragile,

but so perfect.

Those sweet first smiles

at only four weeks old

that made me well up every time.

They’ve become your favorite thing—

mine too.

Your hands are becoming skilled at grabbing,

mostly my hair or your toes.

You like scratching material

and listening to the sound it makes.

You stroke my face gently while I feed you,

gazing up at me

with your big blue eyes.

I’m not ready

to let go of these moments.

You’ve learned to roll in every direction now—

and you enjoy doing this most

when you’re meant to be going to sleep.

Midnight yoga, I call it.

You now hold on to me when I pick you up—

a two-way tether.

A warm little hand on my neck,

tiny scratchy nails

that grow as fast as you.

I’m already struggling to remember

the version of you

that couldn’t do all these new,

amazing things—

that are quickly becoming

so easy for you.

It really does go so fast—

too fast.

So tonight, a tear silently rolled down my cheek

as I rocked you to sleep this evening.

Because one day,

you won’t need to be rocked to sleep anymore.

Won’t need to be comforted in my arms.

Won’t fit so perfectly in them.

And while seeing you grow

is something remarkable in itself…

I’m not ready

to let go of these moments.

— LK

About the Author

LK writes about motherhood in its quietest forms. Drawn to small, fleeting moments, she puts words to the love and change that come with raising a child. Most of her writing happens after bedtime, in the stillness of night, when she can finally pause and take it all in.