Momma Mondays - Nursery Anxiety

When Knox was almost 6 months old, my BFF was in town visiting and stayed home with the baby while Jerrod and I went to church. For the first time since giving birth, my husband put his arm around me during the service, kissed me on the cheek a few times, and took communion with me. We actually listened to the sermon and even followed along with the message notes our church provided, filling in the blanks and reading the scriptures aloud with the rest of the congregation. We weren't rocking the baby, fiddling with the stroller, sneaking out to feed him, or being generally distracted by his utter and all-absorbing cuteness.

Since that day, I have been a broken record:  "It's time to put Knox in the nursery."

But my husband wouldn't hear of it. While I'm home with the baby all day every day, the weekends are 48 hours that Jerrod gets with Knox and he doesn't like to be away from him for a second. So as the baby has grown, gotten bigger, louder, and much more mobile, we have gone through sermons with the little guy squirming on our laps. With each squeal and gurgle, members of the church sitting close enough to us would turn and smile... or just turn... and I hated distracting them from a message that God could really be trying to apply in their lives. "We've got to start putting him in the nursery," I kept saying.  "They like it," he would reply.

A few weeks ago, the pastor was preaching on asking God to use us in powerful ways, but said that we need to be sure that's what we really want because God will answer. So, for example, if you pray for patience, God doesn't just magically make you a patient person; instead, He puts obstacles in your path so that you might exercise patience, to which 9 month old Knox loudly yelled, "WHOA!" (thus, providing me with an opportunity to practice patience as everyone looked around).

So yesterday, my husband surprised me by saying, "Are we putting Knox in the nursery today?" I couldn't believe it. I had been wanting to for a while and he was actually suggesting it!

Confidently, I marched down the hallway to the nursery with the baby on my hip. As the girl started to fill out a name tag to stick on Knox's back, I felt my confidence falter, but only a tad. We were given a number that corresponded to Knox's so that, in an emergency, it would flash on the screen behind the pastor and we could be notified to report to the nursery. I glanced at the number and tucked it into my front pocket where I was sure not to lose it, then walked to the nursery room for drop off.

At the door, I saw a very sweet and very pregnant woman watching over six babies under the age of 2. My confidence, once again, slipped a bit. I had left Knox with a babysitter a handful of times (4, but who's counting?), but those were one-on-one situations where he was given 100% attention. How will this girl wrangle all of them? What if they all dirty their diapers at the same time? What if they all start crying at the same time? What if Knox needs a hug and she's busy? (ahhh, yes, the Crazy seeped in)

"Do you need some help?" I asked her, Knox still firmly on my hip.
"Well, another girl is here but she just took her daughter to the bathroom," she answered, looking toward the door, overwhelmed. A one year old boy on the floor started to cry. "She'll be right back."
"Maybe I should stay?" I offered.
"Yeah, could you?" she asked, "I mean, just til she gets back."

I plopped Knox down on the foam tiles and (ashamed to say so) I felt better that I'd be staying with him. Maybe nursery baby steps were what I- uh, er, Knox- needed.

Just then, the other girl showed up. "Oh here she is. Thanks, but we've got it." They both smiled at me and Knox reached for a rattle. He clapped his hands and ignored me.

"Okay," I said, inching out of the room. I just knew that Knox would realize that I was leaving and lose his mind. I just knew with each step that he was about to go berserk. He's almost 10 months old - all the emails say he should be experiencing separation anxiety; yet rather than sneak out, I said loudly, "Okay, I'll just go then."

Knox heard me and turned. Then, he smiled up at me, a big toothy care-free grin. Without missing a beat, he then turned toward a baby girl beside him and made a grab for her ruffled sock.

So he's fine, I thought to myself. Totally fine. We're late, I should get in there. I turned away and forced myself to walk out of the room, but before I could leave, one of the girls got up from her folding chair and I saw it crash onto the head of the baby boy who was already crying earlier. She rushed to lock the chair and scooped up the baby, obviously feeling terrible. Every reflex in my body caused me to turn back toward my own child, but I forced my brain to win out over my heart: accidents happen, these are good girls, Knox is fine, go to church, meet your husband, step away from the baby.


I hurriedly left the room, a la ripping off a band-aid, and walked quickly to the lobby. When my husband walked in, he headed toward the nursery.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"To check on Knox," he said.
I laughed.

And then started to cry.
"Oh, no!" he said, stopping in his tracks. He was on a mission to check on Knox, but when he saw the tears streaming (seriously, it was ridiculous) down my face, he paused to wrap both arms around me. Of course when I pulled away and seemed to have it under control, he made a beeline toward the nursery to peek in.

So yeah, at 9 months, there is separation anxiety. We just thought it would be the baby, not us. We've seen babies cling to their mothers' necks, cry and cry when left alone, be peeled off their daddy's legs; but Knox was fine. We were the ones that were a mess.

During the service, things were actually really nice. Jerrod put his arm around my shoulders, we whispered to each other about verses we like, we had a semblance of lives before the baby. Okay, we're figuring this out. We're getting into a new life rhythm.

Then this message flashed up on screen: PARENT OF CHILD 659 REPORT TO NURSERY.

Jerrod's hand tensed up on my shoulder. I dug into my pocket and held up our number: 669.
Whew, not us. Knox is fine. 

"Maybe I should go check on him, just in case," Jerrod said.

"No," I answered, holding his hand, determined to fight against the cliches of first-time parents and emotional irrationality. "Knox is fine. His is 669."





"Or wait. Is it 699?"


Oh no. Our confidence faltered... again. I shook my head. Either way, Knox is fine. The number that flashed up on screen was... wait, what was that number?




Then the pastor showed a clip from one of the many Rocky movies where Sly is talking to his son. It's a passionate scene in the street, looks cold or rainy, and father and son stand there facing off. Sly tells his son that he is the best thing in his life, his blood, his heart. Tells his son how much he loves him.

When the clip ended and the lights came up, Jerrod turned to me again. "Maybe I should go check on Knox."

"Absolutely," I said.

Of course, Knox was fine. If anything, he was embarrassed that his folks ruined his cred in front of the other babies. Next week, he's gonna have to knock over somebody's block castle or swipe a toy and not share, just to restore his reputation as a tough guy.