CervivingMom

27th December 2024 This post is a part of 'Celebrate and Reflect Blog Hop' hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters Once upon a time—not in a faraway kingdom, but in a small, cozy home—a little girl sat with her mother and sister every December, stitching stockings. Christmas in their home wasn’t about fancy gifts or feasts. It was about traditions. Writing letters to Santa wasn’t just about making a wish; it was about thanking him for the year that had passed. The tree wasn’t grand—it was small and beautiful. The highlight of her Christmas was always the books under the tree. For that girl books were her best friend and nothing beat the joy of flipping through fresh pages. She hoped to always keep this magic alive. But, as life often does, things changed. Marriage brought her into a home where Christmas wasn’t celebrated the same way. There were no stockings, no tree, no letters to Santa, no books. At first, she brushed it of...

If you think you are getting a baby songs playlist then that’s not going to happen. I am going to tell you about the mental playlist… on a loop! Here’s the thing about becoming a parent: baby songs don’t stay in the nursery. Oh no, they follow you everywhere, creeping into your mind like a cheerful little army that refuses to retreat. You’re not just singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star to your baby. You’re singing it to yourself, to your vegetables, and apparently to your soap dispenser. Take the other day, for example. I was washing my hands, completely alone, no baby in sight. As the water ran, I caught myself softly humming a kids song. Not just humming—I was full-on lost in the song, mentally doing the hand motions. Before I knew it, I was scrubbing my hands to the beat, like some kind of baby-song Broadway performance. It doesn’t stop there. Cooking a meal? Oh, you bet there’s a soundtrack. Chopping vegetables? Suddenly, Old MacDonald Had a Farm is playing in my head. “E-...

So, here’s what happened: I was babysitting my friend’s dog. Let me tell you, this dog lay there in my arms and lap, so relaxed that I wondered if I’d somehow become a dog whisperer overnight. Meanwhile, my husband was busy playing with our 1-year-old son. You know how it goes—babies are like tiny energizer bombs, and he was making sure the little guy didn’t start a game of “let’s eat this mysterious thing off the floor.” Anyway, back to me and the dog. There I was, lovingly caressing this dog, admiring its fur, when suddenly I realized something… I was rocking it. Yes, you read it right! I was rocking it. Like a baby. Back and forth, gently swaying as if I were trying to lull it to sleep with an imaginary lullaby. In that moment, I froze. The dog didn’t seem to mind—it probably thought, Oh wow, premium service today! But I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. You see, rocking has become second nature to me thanks to my son. I rock when I’m holding him. I rock when I’m not holding...