The sun’s not even up,
but you are very, very up.

From the warm spot in my bed,
I heard your babble turn to cries
and I slipped out from underneath the weight of my covers,
not taking time to put on socks before I headed into the kitchen.

The tile is frozen beneath my feet.
I mix a bottle and grab a fuzzy blanket on the way to your room.

Switching on the closet light,
I can see the outline of your face, but not the features.
The sound of your voice tells me that you are happy to see me.
I’ve missed you, too, sweet girl.

I always love being away.
I love stepping out of the mommy role for a few days.
But the comfort of being back where I am most wanted, needed is irresistible.

You curl into my lap and we snuggle and settle in to an old routine.
(Funny how quickly routines become routines.)
(And how quickly they can change.)
(Actually…there is nothing routine about children, is there?)

As you drink, you watch me…just like you did as a little bitty baby.
And, just as I did then, I feel like you know more about me than you are letting on.

As you drink, I watch you…just like I did when you were a little bitty baby.
And, just as I did then, I feel like there is so much more to know about you.

You stop before the bottle is empty, but you are satisfied.
You touch my face and smile.
I kiss your cheek and your nose and that little sweet spot just below your ear
and you laugh that baby laugh-
almost a grunt, but not quite.

And in the almost-darkness of your room,
the moments seem more tender, more perfect, just…more.
Other senses making up for what the eyes cannot see,
the sound of your breathing and mine fill the room.
The touch of your skin to mine warms my body and my heart.
And I try to drink in every ounce of awesome in the room.
(Although I could have done without you smearing snot across my chest.)