da-nah-da.  da-nah-da.  da-nah-da.  My alarm sings to me and I slap at it until it falls silent.  I’m not ready for the morning. (I rarely am.)  I love the dark of night. I get so much accomplished when the house is quiet and my world is still.  If 6 o’clock is the witching hour, then midnight is my golden hour.  But morning is here and there’s so much to do.  I forgot to make lunches last night.  (Again.)

It’s cold and I slip on flannel froggy pajama pants and wrap up in the matching shirt, not even caring that the sleep shirt I already had on is bunched up underneath.  I am up, but not awake.  I stumble to the kitchen and make a bottle.  She’s not awake, but she will be soon.  And three milk cups – one pink, one purple, one green.

I shuffle to the big kids’ room and take a moment to watch them sleep.  I always hate to wake them.  I pat Lydia on the back and she rolls over and I cannot resist the urge to slip into the bed beside her.  I cuddle up with my big girl.  She still fits perfectly in my arms.   I hope that no matter how big she gets, she will always fit perfectly in my arms, but I know that’s not true.  I am content for her to always fit perfectly in my heart.  This I know to be true.

I find myself at that place where silence toes the line with sound.  The ins and outs of her breath heavy and full.  The rhythm so soothing that I begin to drift back off myself.  And then she farts on me and giggles.

Okay, okay.  I’m up.