Landon's bedroom lies on the western corner of the house, so it's good at soaking up a sunset. But in the early mornings, when the western sky is still lavender-grey with sleep, any light in his room is so soft that it barely reaches past the window pane. It's not warm and it's not loud. The morning light in his room is a secret. I like to keep it to myself.
I sit in his rocking chair, deep and soft, kicking off the carpeted floor with only the tips of my toes. It makes for the gentlest motion as we rock. He is in his fleece sleeper, wrapped around me with one hand exploring the neckline of my shirt. My eyes are still scratchy with sleep. He is nestled into me, nursing in half-wakefulness. There is nothing forced about this one; he is too cozy and mellow to protest.
The rest of the day, though, I am fairly forcing myself upon him. The afternoon snack has all but disappeared because he can't be stopped or slowed long enough for a milk-cuddle. At night, when his window is black and cold, he is in avoidance mode: bedtime is near and he would like to flip backwards from the chair -- and my arms -- to race about the bedroom one last time. I've employed all the singing bears and light-up toys in my arsenal to keep him tied down long enough for a suckle, but it isn't me he wants.
It's the mornings that I depend upon. The sweetness of his warmth, melting into me, flowing back into him. That's when he's my baby, after all. I can pretend he isn't a toddler and that his brown eyes will always stare back instead of seeking more excitement elsewhere. I'm not ready for this to end yet, but I can't force it forward much longer without making it into a chore for both of us.
So I find the secret morning light, and I use it to my advantage. I open the shade to take in the pale sky. I allow it to witness the baby pressed into my heart. I praise the softness of its step and forgive the intrusion it must make later.
And I stare into sleepy brown eyes that have nothing else they'd rather be seeing. For now.