The Last Notch

In the movie “The Shawshank Redemption” the character Brooks talks about his new life outside the prison walls. He says “the world went and got itself in a big damn hurry.” He was right. Each moment is rushed. We are constantly rushing to the next moment. When did we stop just being here?

In the first few months we had our son, and he wouldn’t sleep longer than an hour or so at night, I have the memory of taking him into his nursery. I rocked him to sleep and put him in his crib. I prayed with all my might he would just sleep there for awhile. I missed my bed. I missed sleeping next to my husband. I missed sleep. I stumbled into my bedroom and fell into the bed next to my husband. This lasted about ten minutes. My son wasn’t ready for his crib. He wasn’t ready to be thrown into a strange room called his nursery and I was rushing a moment. 

Moments are rushed. Each day I am excited for his next big milestone. Each day I look forward to when he is older and we can go see movies together, or we will have meaningful conversations (like real ones not him babbling gibberish and me nodding, pretending to understand what he is saying. I don’t understand or have the slightest idea what he is trying to convey to me most of the time.) I know what I am doing… and it is so wrong.

Wishing away life, waiting for what I think will be the next breath of fresh air. We always need air and we should be grateful in the fact that we are breathing. We are in the moment of now. When we returned from our vacation, we lowered his crib to the last notch. I don’t know why I put off this milestone for so long. At the beach, I rented baby equipment from a wonderful business called Baby’s Away of Charleston. They instinctively anticipated what my child needed. They set up a crib and it was at the lowest notch. And I knew, it was time. Time to lower his bed. He is climbing. He is literally running and bouncing off the walls. He is living each day in his new moment. 

As I look at his new lower crib, I know what will happen next. He will outgrow his crib. He will then need a toddler bed, and before I know it he will have his own room with a real bed. He will be playing Playstation 6 or whatever the current gaming system is, and I won’t be allowed in his smelly boy room where socks and pizza crust litter the floor. All those first little moments will be gone. They will be a memory just like the one where I put him in his crib for the first time and prayed he would sleep.

It’s going too damn fast. The world really is in a damn hurry. And just like Brooks, we are all here. We are present in the now. Not looking to the next moment, but we are living in this precise exact moment. And in a few seconds, it will be gone. And the memory is all we will have.

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