Posted by Duff

For a number of the usual reasons that afflict infants his age, Atticus is sleeping fitfully. I’m not complaining. I can sleep another year. And other years will come. Too quickly.

It’s 3:30 am, and I am filling baby bottles. My neighborhood is dark. There is nothing worth watching on television. And I’m transported back to the pre-dawn of 15 weeks ago, when I was timing contractions. Oddly, I am nostalgic for that pain if it means I get to re-live the day I met him. Even if it means I have to re-live the typical eight weeks of baby boot camp.

Because I’m crazy like that. Because he’s my last baby.

He’s really waking up now, and I’m glad, because I want to see him. At 3:33 am. Because it’s our time together, and soon enough he’ll be a smelly ‘tween who has no idea how much his mommy loves him, and he certainly won’t want anyone else to know.

But this morning, before even the birds, his puffy eyes are happy to see me. He leans into my shoulder and yawns. Says hello by placing a strand of lazy g’s and e’s around my neck.

He has no plans of going back to sleep anytime soon. He has scheduled a month of sunrises for us to see together and each comes and goes in a dream-like blink.

It’s gone.

The world wakes up and he smiles directly into my soul before I get up to prepare us for a day apart.

Advertisements