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.