Big red chair.

Last night before bed, I snuck into Calvin's room. I leaned over his crib in the darkness and whispered "hi sweetheart" to my sleeping boy, only to have tiny hands reach up to grab my shirt. "Rock me," he whispered back.

I gathered him up, he wrapped his tiny arms around me, and we settled into the big red chair in his room. He snuggled his face into the crook of my neck, and stroked my hair as I traced circles on his back.

We rocked.

His breathing slowed; his hands stopped moving, still tangled in my hair. Asleep. I stroked his sweet curls, and a tear rolled down my cheek.

My sweet baby. So big, sprawled across my entire lap and half the chair. When did this happen? When did he grow too big for me to comfortably hold? When did our late night snuggles become the exception and not the rule?

As I rocked him, I thought of his sleepy newborn days. His pudgy little legs and wide, toothless grin at six months old. The bins of his infant clothes parked in our dining room, waiting to be sorted, shared, sold. The many nights spent together in this red chair, which will soon find a home across the hall. And my sweet daughter, who will take his place as the baby of our family a few short months from now.

I cried silently, my tears wetting his sleeping head.

It's all going so fast. And I feel like I'm missing it. As I struggle to drag myself through day after day of morning routines and commutes and work and dinner and bedtime routines, he's growing. Learning. Maturing. Finding his way in the world. And I'm just trying to survive another day of mile-long to-do lists.

I want to slow time, to bottle these years of his smallness. Because I know they'll be gone soon, much sooner than I expected. And I'm not ready. I'm not ready for preschool and third grade and homecoming dances. I'm not ready to sacrifice our one-on-one time to the needs of another baby. I'm not ready to move the big red chair across the hall.

But as I rocked my sleeping son last night, I realized none of this is about me. Everything I do as a parent is for Calvin. And he's ready. He's desperate to grow big, like his daddy. He wants to know everything about everything and find his way in the world. And he's ready to relinquish his place as the baby and embrace his new role as big brother...even if I'm not. My job isn't to keep him small, it's to give him roots and wings. To teach him to fly without forgetting where he came from.

After a while, Calvin shifted uncomfortably in my arms and repositioned himself so that he was cradled across my lap. I held him like that for a moment, marveling at the difference two years makes. Then I gently pushed aside his mop of curls, kissed his forehead, and returned him to bed.

I padded back to my bed, where I snuggled in next to my sleeping husband and prayed for my children — my darling big boy and my precious unborn daughter.

I promise not to hold them back, Lord. Just please let me rock them a little while longer.