Three and Holding

The Dance of the Last Baby

There is a passage in Barbara Kingsolver's novel The Poisonwood Bible where the mother, Orleanna Price, is talking about her fourth and final child; how mothers will hold the last baby well past the point of sleep, or something along those lines. It has been a few years since I read the book so I don't remember the exact words, but I was reminded again of the passage the other night when I was putting E. to bed.

When I used to put my first baby to bed there was a rigidness to it, a sort of grandmotherly advice-like script that I felt I should follow to ensure smoothness and promote independence.

With my second, I coddled her quite a bit, rocking her into slumber for the longest time. Honestly though, that had more to do with her temperament than any motherly instinct on my part. Once she was asleep I had her in the her crib pretty damn fast, so eager was I to shape-shift back into an independent entity before I would have to start the mother-a-thon again the next morning. I think that's probably a common sentiment with the "two under three" set.

Those "two under three" are now seven and five, which is a whole different bed time dynamic. And E. is my last baby: there will be no more. So I really wouldn't mind so much if she was high need at bed time. The ironic thing about E. is that she really has no sleepytime vices now that she is weaned. She doesn't take a bottle which effectively cuts out the mandated before-bed cuddle. She likes to snuggle, but she's okay with talking herself to sleep alone in her crib too. She's breezy. But I like to cuddle her, so I do. And she fits so perfectly on my torso, her head of downy hair resting comfortably under my chin, her bottom supported by my right arm, her legs resting on my hips. Her head either smells freshly shampooed or, if we didn't have time that night, it may smell of spaghetti or yogurt or whatever else she decided to rub into her hair that day. I don't mind though because if I stroke her hair with my chin it still feels deliciously like talcum powder.

Her right hand grabs the fabric on my left arm as I sway back and forth. I know she is starting to drift off when the grip begins to relax and her head tilts back slightly. This is the point where I would have set H. down, but with E. I take a moment to study her little face. Chocolate lashes rest against creamy round cheeks. Pink, pouty lips are as plump and juicy as two miniature segments of grapefruit. I kiss them what feels like a thousand times while she slumbers in my arms. I'm still swaying back and forth, even though I know she's fast asleep now. I'm like a dancing partner who is reluctant to let go. Can't we float around the floor for just one more song? You're just delightful.

What do you think it is about the last baby? Is there some kind of nostalgia/mothering switch that gets triggered when mothers know they're done producing offspring? It's got to be something like that. Whatever it is, it's not exclusive to women. For when B. puts our last baby to bed, he's in there an awfully long time.