Constant Craving

I gaze upon your sleeping form through the haze and static of the black and white baby monitor. If not for this piece of technology I would never see you slumber, since these days you eschew sleep for mischief making. Even in the car you hold onto wakefulness tightly with both of your chubby fists, daring the sandman to force you into unconsciousness.

It's nights like these that I see you in the monitor and I long to climb the stairs and enter your room and climb into your crib with you. I want to mold my long body into the corners and angles of your small bed, around your ever lengthen frame, and drink in the remaining bits of your baby smell. Was it only 17 months ago that you came from me. Was it really 17 months? It seems so long ago. It seems like yesterday.

I've oftentimes told your father that I wanted to go to you, to dare waking you just to be close. What I didn't tell him was that I needed to go to you. Would he understand if I were to tell him that I craved your touch? Probably not, given the times that I complain about your various capers and escapades as you grow older and more bold. But I do. I crave you. It was five months ago, on your first birthday, that you decided to wean yourself. True, we had been working up to that day, but ultimately it was you who decided when the time was right. Since then, I've held on to whatever intimacy you've offered. A kiss here, a hug there. A grasp of fingers on my thigh or wrist when you're in that semi-comatose state while watching Elmo before naptime. Your breath becoming slower and heavy. Winding down. My favorite time.

A month ago, maybe longer, we had our last nap together. It was completely unintentional, yet I remember it with more fondness now than I felt for it when it was happening. Then, at the time, I thought about the lost hours, the crick in my neck from sleeping in an awkward position, your loss of sleep from not being in your own bed and the terror that reigned on our house at your hands afterward. These days you have no need to snuggle with me before bedtime, yet I continue to try to cling to those moments for dear life. You have little need for our cuddle time, eschewing my embrace for the comfort of your crib. Though we still sit together before bed and you place your head on my collar bone, as is our habit, for an instant, if not for our routine I would barely notice your touch. It happens that quickly. Then you tip your head to the left, our sign for sleep, and you mutter "Buh", your word for "bed", clearly letting me know that you don't need my comfort or the warmth of my body to induce sleep. I put you in bed, cover you with your blanket, hand you your favorite lovey and tell you "Sleep tight. I love you." I love you.

Then I close the door.

Yet, still, my breast aches for you. I long for the contentment I feel from your breath on my cheek, your warmth on my skin. I think about your open-mouth kisses, or how I taught you "Eskimo kisses" and how you oblige me with a shake of your head, letting me rub the tip of my nose to yours. How I long to be in that warm, dark room with you, dreaming of nothing more than sunshine and graham crackers. I long, I need, I crave.

There's a noise from the monitor. She's moving. You're moving. You're restless, moving back and forth from a child pose - butt in the air, knees bent beneath - to sprawled out, each limb close to touching an opposite rail. Will you call for me? Will you need my comfort? I pose, ready for your cry, your appeal, bidding, summons. I wait for you to summon me. I wait for you to need me as much as I need you. But often, more times than not, you go back to sleep and I am left wanting. How can a mother complain about that? I don't complain, out loud. Inside I wish that you needed me more to rub your back, caress your cheek, or hum "I Will" to you while you return to your hard repose. Today, you don't. Tomorrow, perhaps, you will.

Until then I will wait until you need me, a fraction of how much I need you. Until then I will keep this primordial need tucked deep inside me. The primal instinct, the most ancient of all feelings. More animal than the need to feed or procreate. More familiar than breathing. The craving that needs to be satisfied. The fire that burns. The physical need of a mother for her child.

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This was a response to HBM's call for posts about the physical love of a mother for her child. Does it adequately sum up my physical need for my child. In a word, no. No words that I have could ever describe the need I feel for my daughter. But I feel like all women who have had a child know exactly what I am talking about. Sometimes words are not enough, yet they are everything.

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Don't forget about the "Name That Dog Blog" contest. I've gotten some really great suggestions for names and taglines so far (how the hell did you guys get to be so witty?). Even if you don't have an idea for a name or tagline, vote for the one(s) you like the best from the ones that have already been suggested. I'm totally undecided so far and I need - oh, how I need - your help. Winners will be announced on Friday.