the dog days of toddlerhood

My baby is almost three. On the nights when he can't fall asleep and the music on the side of his crib has been turned on and off and on and off - the toddler equivalent of counting sheep - and he finally starts crying for me in sleepy frustration, I go into his room to see what the matter might be. His room still smells vaguely of baby. One part baby powder (even though we never used baby powder), one part Pampers (even though we never used Pampers) and one part milk (even though nursing is long over). On these nights I sit in the rocking chair with this little boy clinging to me and try and tell myself to remember this feeling. It won't be long and this room will smell all-boy and this boy won't consider sitting quietly with his mama an option in any way. On these nights I try to somehow physically pour love into his little solid frame and to let that part of him that is still mine seep into me. Just to stow away all that love to last me during the times when I might not be his favorite person. Love that will sustain us both during the silent years. Those years when I won't know exactly what he's feeling and needing every second of the day, usually me. Just to sit with him and be still.