Humor

(A)Musing Mother - The Rest of a Nap

by Miranda Rusere
09/20/26
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Please, please, please stay asleep.

I look down at the little face—eyes closed, lips pursed, one hand resting ever so sweetly on her cheek. You’d never guess, just by looking at her, that fifteen minutes ago she was screaming something straight out of a horror movie.

I hold my breath and calculate every movement as I do The Transfer. Every parent knows The Transfer—the moment you move a sleeping baby from warm, comfortable, loving embrace to… the crib. It doesn’t compare; we all know that, yet we do it anyway, hoping and praying that maybe the sweet little babe won’t notice.

I take a careful step back, eyes glued to the bundled form lying there peacefully on her--

Squeeeeeeeeeeak.

What the…

My foot lands on something soft. And squeaky. I look down and spot the culprit, a soft book with crinkles and flaps and mirrors and… squeakers.

Wonderful spot for that! Brilliant.

I risk a glance at the precious, yet precarious, little being in her prison—I mean crib. No movement. Okay, great, maybe we’ll live to see another day after all.

There’s a new problem, though. To lift or not lift my foot off the squeaky book? Does it squeak on impact and take off? Or just impact? Darn it, I can’t remember.

My silent deliberating is cut short by a high-pitched cry. And just like that we’re back to square one. I take a step forward to reach for the sweet, loud, little girl. And yes, I do notice that the squeaker lets out a mere pfff. Like an airy fart. I make a mental note that it only squeaks on impact but don’t know why I bother—I’ll forget in about 5 seconds anyway. Mom brain is the official term for that.

In my arms she settles quickly. A couple rocks and well-timed ssshhhhhs and we’re back in business. The business of sleeping.

Full of defeat, I retreat to the rocking chair. I know when to count my losses, and this is one of them. A fight to fall asleep and then a rude awakening post-transfer? There’s no coming back from that. We’ll try again tomorrow. For now, we are sentenced to a contact nap in the chair. RIP to my arms, back, shoulders, and probably knees and toes too at this point.

I pull out my phone as her breathing grows deep once more. My frustration fizzles out of me like a deflated balloon as I watch her sleep. The lyrics from that country song play in the back of my mind.

“You’re gonna miss this,

You’re gonna want this back.

You’re gonna wish these days hadn’t gone by so fast.”

That’s probably true. But I think I’m also going to miss not having back pain that comes from holding a seventeen-pound baby in the same position for an hour. Oh well.

I find the group chat of moms from church and send an SOS message: “Prayers up—it’s a nap from you-know-where kind of day.”

It doesn’t take long to get a reply: “That was us yesterday. This too shall pass.” Another one comes in right after: “Don’t worry, mama, the dirty dishes aren’t going anywhere.”

I let out a soft laugh at their witty remarks. At least we’re in this together. I’m tempted to scroll on my phone for the next hour, but I recall something Pastor Tim said at church on Sunday.

He was preaching on abiding. Abiding in the Lord. “What if every time we felt like reaching for our phones, we reached for our Bibles instead? What if, instead of an average screen time of three, five, eight hours a day, that was time spent in God’s Word?”

Immediately I had approximately nine rebuttals for why I couldn’t do that. Followed by nine realizations that they were all lame excuses. But I’m so tired, God. It’s so much easier to mindlessly scroll. I actually have to think when I read your Word.

That’s the point. Doofus.

God? Was that you? Okay, probably just my conscience. The “doofus” for unnecessary effect. But it’s true. Having to think isn’t a bad thing.

I swipe to the Bible App on my Home Screen and click on it. I find Psalm 91, one of the references from Pastor Tim’s sermon.

I read the first two verses, and for a moment it feels as though I’m reading them for the first time, though I know that’s not true. But they strike me in a way I haven’t noticed before.

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust.’”

The words “dwell” and “rest” jump out at me. Dwell. Abide. In Him I find my rest. By dwelling in His shelter, I will rest.

I look once more at the sleeping babe in my arms, the spot in which she dwells. Resting. That is what my Heavenly Father longs for me to do—dwell in his shelter and rest.

I lean my head back on the rocking chair, eyes upward to the unseen heavenly realms.

Father, thank you for being my resting place. May I dwell in your shelter all the days of my life.

The tiredness and odd aches in my worn body don’t seem as noticeable right now. I know they’re still there, and I’m sure I’ll feel them again (such as the next time I sleep wrong—how do I keep messing that up anyways?), but for now I rest in the truth of God’s Word. Thank you, Lord, for your good Word.