I woke up this morning with my 4-year-old tugging on my arm and whispering in my face, “Wake up Mommy.” His breath smelled like he ate garbage for dinner, an onion for dessert and gargled with toilet water. My kids are mouth breathers. He came into my bedroom in the middle of the night after having a nightmare. What does a 4-year-old have nightmares about? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps he went with Dora to save a princess and The Map gave them wrong directions. Or maybe the cops finally arrested Dora’s parents on child endangerment charges because Dora is wandering the earth without adult supervision. Regardless, he came running in my room for comfort. His sister was already there. I admit I have allowed all three of my babies to sleep in my room. I don’t advocate co-sleeping. I know experts say it can be dangerous. It also suffocates your marriage. Forget romance or even conversation for that matter. Plus, over the years I’ve had countless nights of being kicked in the face and waking up in a pool of vomit.
So, why wouldn’t I put them in a crib? I tried, but my irrational fears took over. I actually blame Nancy Grace. Her theories on missing babies scared the hell out of me. It could be the way she glares at the camera, eyes bugged out and speaks with an angry southern drawl. Either way, her stories about “Tot Moms” are more frightening than her nip slip on Dancing With the Stars.
Truthfully, I loved holding my babies in my arms as they drifted to sleep. The scent of baby powder filled the air. The whisper of each gentle breath was soothing. I cherished these moments because I knew they wouldn’t last forever. My eldest son who once liked to ‘snuggle, buggle’ rarely offers a hug. Not to mention that baby smell has been replaced with sweat and gentle reminders to wear deodorant. So, I will cherish these moments. Before you know it I will become that old lady in the grocery store telling young mothers to “Enjoy these years, it goes by fast.”