The secret magic of a father's shoulder

The other evening Zahava and I attended a Bat Mitzvah in a neighboring town and left our big kids to look after Yonah. 

Ari and Gili are more than up to this task and have fallen into a rotating division of labor when it comes to who will feed him, get him drinks, change his diapers, get him into his PJs and sing Sh'ma (a Biblical recitation that is said in the morning and evening) with him before bed.

Most of these tasks entail a certain amount of horse-trading ("I changed the last diaper... no, it's your turn!"), and there have been more than a few occasions when both kids developed a temporary visual and olfactory blindness to Yonah's excretory prowess ("Uh, guys... what's that smell... oh my G-d!!!... why does Yonah look like he's wearing an inflated beach ball instead of a diaper?!").  But for the most part the kid is relatively clean and well fed whenever he's left in his sibling's capable hands. 

However, there is also a logistical aspect to having the big kids babysit. 

You see, we live in a three-story townhouse.... what is call a 'cottage' over here.  The big kids each have their own bedrooms on the third floor and share a bathroom.  There is also a guest room with it's own bathroom up there.  The kitchen, dining room and living room are on the middle floor, and our master bedroom/bath, along with our office and Yonah's nursery, are on the first floor.

So, whenever the kids are babysitting for Yonah in the evening, one of them has to go to sleep in our bed in order to be able to be close enough to hear him if he wakes up. 

Unlike other responsibilities associated with taking care of their baby brother, sleeping in our bed (at least until we get home) is a privilege that both kids fight to claim ("No, you got to sleep downstairs last time... no you did... it's my turn!").

The funny thing is, I know instinctively what this bickering is about.  I can remember with perfect clarity the comforting smell and feel of my parent's bed.  No matter how freshly laundered the linens, there is a faint, pheromonal connection that irresistibly draws children to the safe warm place where their parents sleep.

There is also the inevitable rough intimacy of being evicted from the parental bed with gentle kisses and soft tickles when we finally get home... as well as the treat of being carried up to bed with a sleep-tousled head lolling drunkenly on my shoulder.

When we returned from the Bat Mitzvah, all was silent (always a good sign) so Zahava and I went about our unspoken routine of putting our home to sleep for the night; locking the doors... turning off a forgotten light here and there... putting an errant shoe with it's partner near the stairs... and finally going down to 'our' part of the house.

I poked my head into the nursery to make sure Yonah hadn't kicked off his covers in his sleep (he had), and when I came back into our bedroom Zahava was standing with her hands on her hips staring lovingly at Gilad nestled deep into the pillows on my side of the bed. 

The stark contrast between Yonah's soft cuddliness and Gilad's lean, angular build was accentuated by their sleeping proximity.  But despite the sharp athleticism of Gili's muscular arms and legs, a small soft place on his neck... just behind his left ear... demanded to be nuzzled and kissed.

In his slumber Gilad reacted exactly as Yonah does when I go 'hmmmmm' against that tender spot; leaning into the kiss and reaching up to return my embrace.  However as he came fully awake, Gilad's babiness fell away from him like a sleep-tossed blanket, and the precursor of the man he will become emerged from the tangled comforter standing up shockingly close to my own eye level.

There was a moment where his arms remained around my shoulders... and I half hoped he would hop up against my shoulder to be carried up to bed.  I could still do it... and I knew he would enjoy it.  But then he absent-mindedly rubbed the defined '4-pack' of his bare midriff and seemed to come to a silent decision. He simply kissed me on the corner of my mouth and shuffled off to his own bed.

Though he is only ten years old, that moment hit me as though he had already left for the army!  I'm not ready to admit that two of my three children no longer need to be carried off to bed. 

Carrying sleeping children to bed is one of a father's most cherished privileges and sacred duties.  It's a comforting touchstone... a carry-over from a time when tiny feet are innocent of callouses and pudgy little legs have yet to take a step.  But even though we fathers continue the charade of necessity long after walking has turned to running... we secretly pray the day will never come when a sleepy embrace is deliberately broken... rather than culminating in a soft toss onto a waiting shoulder.

Gilad probably doesn't realize it yet, but his days of being carried up to bed ended the other night the moment he kissed me and shuffled away.  Somewhere in his sub-conscious mind a decision was made... to set off on his own... or perhaps simply to spare my aging back.

I'm 44 years old now, but I have crystal clear recollections of the impossibly safe feeling and comforting smell of falling asleep in my parent's bed.  And if I close my eyes I can still feel the protective, gently rocking warmth of my father's shoulder as he carried me back to my own bed. 

The funny thing is, I had always secretly wondered if these memories were as strong for my father as for me.  How did I not realize the obvious answer to that question?

Even though a small part of our relationship changed the other night, I'm sure Gilad will still occasionally camp out in my bed.  And I'm certain the scent of my pillow will transport him... in his dreams at least... back into my arms.  I know this because each time I embrace my own father... kiss his neck and smell his secret paternal aroma... l am mentally swept up into his waiting arms and carried off to my own childhood bed... to be tucked in safe and sound.

This is the secret magic of a father's shoulder... and that magic never wears off.