Recently a friend handed me her baby. He was a little fussy and I found myself doing that walk/rock/dip/dance move I’ve perfected over 12 years of parenting six kids. How many late nights did I spend pacing the halls like that? How many church services did I listen to while rocking my way across the back of the church? How many family get-togethers did I try to carry on conversations while whispering a million tiny “sh” noises into a baby’s ear and doing that little bounce?
Although my youngest is no longer a baby, when that little one was handed to me the other day, it all came rushing back.
I have never been a good dancer. In fact, I have been a famously bad dancer, requiring remedial dance classes just be allowed in my high school show choir. My brain doesn’t communicate with my feet in any kind of dependable way. My body and I don’t generally get along very well. But through hours and hours of loving little people, I have found a rhythm that feels so instinctual. It has made me love and respect my body for what it can do instead of focusing on what it can’t.
My babies gave me grace as I learned these steps, as we learned together. They would let me know by settling against my chest when I hit that perfect, peaceful stride. They would giggle as I bounced them and looked into their eyes. They would get restless and whimper when I stopped. They taught me what they needed and I learned to be present in the moment with them.
Rocking a baby requires your full attention. I struggle to live in the moment, but a baby will pull you into that moment of mindfulness whenever they need to be rocked. You become uniquely aware of the position of your arm as it starts to go numb from being held so still. You’re thankful for your soft stomach as a baby rests its weight against you. You do your best to manually slow your heartbeat to create a quiet rhythm for your baby’s heart to mimic as you hold her face to your chest. You whisper, you kiss, you dance cheek-to-cheek with this fragile little life that’s so dependent on your body to regulate her own. In that moment, there is no other moment. There’s no fear of the future, no regrets from the past. There’s just you and this baby, dancing together, praying for peace, longing for rest, savoring each other, finding your rhythm.
As someone who has always been self-conscious when asked to dance, my babies cured me in so many ways of my dancing fears. They were always asking to dance, always thankful when I took them in my arms, always reluctant to be put down. They accepted what I had to offer and helped me perfect my dancing skills. They loved my awkward rhythm and didn’t care about my two left feet. They didn’t care if I was confident or fumbling my way through. They rested against my hard shoulder and collarbones and snuggled into my soft chest without complaints about how my body looked or felt. They knew I was their comfort and nothing else mattered.
My babies taught me to dance and to love the dance. They helped me love the way my body was made and they taught me to value it. They helped me become a confident dancer as I rock the babies of my friends and volunteer to cuddle the fussiest of little ones. In those moments, I am fully present and fully thankful for the dancer I have become.
Those lessons haven’t left, even though it may be weeks between the opportunities I get to rock a baby. I dance in the kitchen while I cook and do dishes, I dance with my big kids even when it embarrasses them just a little, I dance in the car all by myself. I’m thankful for this body and glad I get the chance to use it, flaws and all. I’m thankful for the ways in which my babies helped me become this woman just by asking me to dance.