That's All Folks...

Today I got to spend a moment, a few moments actually, holding my sick little boy as he fell asleep in my arms. I rocked him in the relative quiet of our living room, watching as his eyelids grew heavy and finally closed.

I didn't reach for my book or my tablet, I didn't fiddle on my phone or try and shift him to another surface. It didn't take long for my arm to start falling asleep, but I paid it little attention, and instead focused on my baby boy.

I first noticed the familiar. His warm weight; the way his long eyelashes rested on the top of his chubby cheeks; the way his bottom lip dents in when his sleep is deepest; the spidery veins on his eyelids. Then I took note of the differences, things that have cropped up since the onset of his illness. His red-rimmed eyes; his more-pale-than-usual skin; the crackly sound he makes when he breathes.

I took it all in as I watched him sleep. It felt precious, and fleeting. I knew he wouldn't sleep long, that the likelihood that one of his sisters would come storming up the stairs and startle him was strong. So I sat, I savored, and I made myself a memory.

Teag and I have often talked about lasts. What would you do if realized that was the last time you'd hold your child on your lap? The last time they'd come to you with a bad dream, or a scraped knee? Would you be grateful you got a full nights sleep, or would you feel that tug of loss that they didn't need you anymore?

Finn will be seven months old in a few days. He's already beginning to be too fidgety to cuddle with, and he rarely falls asleep on me anymore. He's exploring the world around him, and changing on a daily basis. Today as I held him, I realized this and tried to make the most of this possibly-last chance to hold my sleeping baby.

He is my last.

And as I held him I knew that this tender moment, this thirty minutes, was as fleeting as the Christmas tree across the room from where I sat.