I don't think I believe in letting an eight week old cry-it-out (today), but sometimes you just have to take a shower...
I put him on his back in his crib like the books say I should, at least he will be safe here. I pull out toys - ridiculous because he has never once shown any interest - and his stuffed purple elephant. I turn on the canned music from his sound machine, and I say a quiet prayer.
There is a few second reprieve when I lay him down - the change of scenery, the light coming in through the plantation blinds. But, like clockwork, they come again. He screams out, and then it is full on. I walk away, but I know the tears are there.
In the shower, I let the water drown out the crying. I relax, if only for five minutes.
As I do my final rinse, my body tightens, and I prepare myself for the race - the inevitable ten minute dash from toothbrush to blow dryer to closet while my heart races at the shrieking baby in my background.
I turn the knob and wait for it... But I find silence instead. Towel-drying, I fight the urge to peek... Surely he has cried his little body to sleep. The risk is too great, the possibility of five more minutes - too enticing.
Then, I hear it....
Only it's not the scream I've grown accustomed to - but a coo, a gurgle, like a morning chat with himself.
Around the door frame, I see him then - smiling, talking, staring at his purple elephant - and now I'm the one in tears.
I don't know if we are all-the-way there just yet; but I saw it that morning - the other side - and it is beautiful.
I'm linking this post over at The Extraordinary Ordinary for the first "Just Write" party. Go visit.