Strawberry Hands

I dedicate this piece to my mom on her birthday! The best mom and the best grandma 🙂

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8:55 pm.

Two hours of fighting this child to sleep. Five minutes before my daughter and her husband get home.

I cradled him in his rocking chair and he stared up at me smiling, reaching for my chin. I patted his back and shushed him over and over, and he just stared, smiling.

8:56.

He sat up and slapped his hands on his lap, giggled, and twisted to face me. He sandwiched my face between his drooly hands. They still smelled like the strawberries he had with his dinner.

8:57.

I stood up and walked around in the dark. More shushing, more rocking, and a firm grasp on a baby who was wriggling his hardest to look around at each corner of the room. I caressed his cheek and he giggled. Back to the rocking chair.

8:58.

I played soft music from my phone. He jolted up and tried to rip the phone out of my hands. I stuffed it between my leg and the rocking chair cushion. He snuggled up against my chest and grabbed my hands, squeezing them, playing with my fingers.

8:59.

I shushed louder. I held him tighter—a snug embrace from Grandma should do the trick, right? I patted his bottom and he yawned and sighed. Almost there. Almost there.

The front door opened. My daughter and her husband walked in the house. The keys clanged onto the hook. The refrigerator door opened and shut. 

I set the baby down in his crib, accepted defeat, and greeted them downstairs. They chuckled at my bedtime battle. Silly boy, he just wants his mama.

We all walk up the stairs to his bedroom and open the door. Everyone stands still. The baby is fast asleep. We stifle our laughs at the miracle and file out of his room. I shut the door and—

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING

Oh my god. My phone. On the rocking chair. Oh my god.

“Mmmmmmmmm-mmm-mmm-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da.”