In the first weeks after my son was born, I would sit in bed nursing him and look out the window at the tree in my neighbor’s back yard. I would stare at the thick branches alive with dark green leaves and watch it sway in the wind. When the window was open I could hear the whisper of the leaves as the tree moved back and forth and, when the window was closed, I imagined the sound.

Those days felt so uncertain and the swaying tree gave me comfort, the same I hoped to give my son when I’d stand in his room at night, holding him in my arms, trying to get him to go back to sleep. I’d plant my feet and rock back and forth, whispering a song in his ear. I’d sway even as my mind was wild with panic, convinced that he would never go back to sleep, that I wouldn’t either.

After our daughter was born, I stared at that same tree outside the window and took similar comfort as I had when I’d nursed my son three years earlier. I’d hold her small body close to mine and watch the branches move though, this time, they were absent of leaves and dusted with snow. Still, the branches swayed and I breathed and this familiar rhythm reminded me that we had been through this before, that those desperate times with a crying newborn do not last forever.

On one of those desperate nights, my partner, Luisa, took our daughter downstairs to the point furthest from our bedroom–the pantry at the back of the house–so that I could sleep, but I could still hear the baby crying and went down to the kitchen for a glass of water and to offer help. I saw Luisa standing in the pantry staring out the window that was perfectly framing a full moon. She held our daughter against her chest and swayed back and forth and stared out the window, whispering words of comfort like a secret.

These are constants–the moon, the movement of the tides, the instinct to comfort.

And in that moment, I recognized that Luisa was a constant too, for me, for our children. She is strong and sometimes rigid but with a quiet gift for swaying when necessary.

We did survive those early years and, as the kids grew, we couldn’t always hold them as we did when they were babies but we could always lean in, wrap our arms around them and move slowly, rocking them back and forth when they were sad or in pain.

About a year ago, we were at a friend’s cabin and my son did something he wasn’t supposed to do, something so minor I can’t even remember what it was. I corrected him and was about to dole out consequences when he took a step closer to me, wrapped his arms around me and said, “Mama, let’s sway.” We rocked back and forth and fell into the rhythm that seems to be woven into our muscles. I looked at him and said, “Are you trying to distract me?” He smiled and said, “You can’t be upset when we sway.”

He was right.

That day swaying became something more to all of us–it became a noun. The kids made a rule: if someone asks for a sway, you have to stop what you’re doing and give them one. We follow this rule always.

A few weeks ago, Luisa, and I were frustrated with our son because he had forgotten an assignment at school and couldn’t do his homework. This was the most recent incident of many and we spoke with raised voices and he answered with excuses until it became clear that he was just as frustrated as we were. So, we lowered our voices and offered suggestions and made plans but there was still tension in the air. Before we sent him upstairs to bed, we told him we loved him and he reached out his arms and said, “Sway?”

You cannot refuse a sway.

So, I wrapped my arms around my son who will soon be a teenager and swayed. I remembered his tiny body curled into mine in the first weeks after he was born and the motion of the tree outside the window. I thought of all the times we’d done this to take away the pain of skinned knees or disappointment.

And I worried.

Our kids are getting older and life is becoming more complicated and I don’t always know how to provide comfort. I must remember to breathe, to trust our rhythm and whisper words of love in their ears. I must remember to sway.