Rocking in the big, yellow chair in my two-year-old’s room, the sweet folk melodies of the Fleet Foxes fill the room. The nightlight shines in the corner, throwing light and shadows on the beige walls.

My son’s little head nuzzles into my shoulder as his eyes close. I rest my lips on the top of his head, feeling his fine hair tickle them. I feel his warm weight leaning into me. Shifting, he climbs up onto my lap facing me, curling his legs under him. Then he’s back to sitting on my lap, his head leaning onto my chest. Every once in a while, he unceremoniously squirms and kicks the arm of the chair, trying to get comfortable. Eventually, he drifts off, his breathing becomes steady and his arms limp. I wrap my arms around him, cradling him as I place him in his crib.

In those few minutes, I drifted back to nearly two years before, in that exact same place.

Back then, his body fit easily in my arms, so light even for a newborn. Only the fluffiest hair graced his head, an odd little widow’s peak poking down his forehead. His cry was piercing, causing my breathing to quicken and my heart to pound. The calm music was as much for my benefit as his. I paced the room rocking him, hoping that some magical combination of doing the right things would help him drift off.

Now, I’m no longer afraid of dropping him. Instead of panicking when he won’t sleep, I’m now both charmed and annoyed when he wants me to snuggle. No longer counting off the minutes and hours left, I snuggle into him knowing these nights will become fewer and fewer as the days go by.

But both were in the same place, a quiet child’s bedroom meant for rest and play. Both were the same child, finding refuge in his mother’s arms. Both were the same mother, trying to show her love as best she could.

There are some things that will never change. While my son will outgrow our chair, he’ll never outgrow my hugs. While he may no longer listen to music as he sleeps, he’ll always know the song I’ve put in his heart. While he will grow older, I will always love him.

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