Twas the middle of the night, early morning shall I say?
Not a creature was stirring, ‘cept the new babe where he
lay.
Ugh. Why does everyone else get to sleep? All 4 of the
others AND the clown emeritus of our family circus seem to sleep happily right
through his hunger cries. I pry my eyes open several minutes after the
fussiness coming from the baby monitor has worked its way into my dream. I
fumble for my glasses and glance at the clock.
3:34
Hmph. I just KNEW he would sleep through the night tonight. For
Pete’s sake, he’s 6 weeks old already! He’s practically full grown! Will I ever
get a full night’s rest again? Grrrr…
So as not to disturb the slumbering bear beside me, I slip
quietly out of bed, stumble quite gracefully up the stairs with my eyes still
closed, and enter his room. I gently touch his back to let him know I’m here,
and raise him up to my face. He smells so good, even after the Baby Magic has
worn off. We settle into the glider and he latches.
During the chaos of the day I sat down to feed him at least 5
times, but I was always multitasking: settling an argument between the middle
two boys, feeding a snack or reading a book to my toddler, checking Facebook,
responding to texts, trying to pull teeth- er, I mean- have a conversation with
my preteen about his day at school, barking orders, making checklists, grocery
lists, thank you card lists, birthday party guest lists… you get the idea.
Tonight, it’s just baby D and me. No distractions. No background noise. In the
still of the night, the soft sound of his sweet gulps brings a smile to my
heart, reminding me how cool it is to be the sole source of nutrition for this
little guy. Without me, he doesn’t eat. I get to fill his tummy and satisfy his
hunger. It is during this time that I collect him. In the dim light that peeks
around half-closed bathroom door right outside his room, I study the curves of
his cheeks, the lines in his palms, the thickness of his little fingers, the
shape of his nose. I note that he tucks his thumbs inside his fists when he
sleeps just like I do. My eyes are
heavy. I rest my head on the back of the glider and doze off to the sound of
his swallows. Just minutes later, he pulls away. He squirms and grunts and fidgets and
gripes until he gets in exactly the right position. Then all of a sudden,
peaceful rest spreads across his sweet little face and he settles into a
rhythmic breathing. Seconds later, you can count on his eyelids to flutter, and
a gigantic smile to break out, showing those two heart-melting dimples. On a
lucky night, I get a sneak peek of his laugh, as he gives a soft chuckle at
whatever movie he's watching behind those lazy eyelids...
I listen closely to his breath, watch his chest rise and
fall as I snuggle him close, and thank God for designing this blessing in disguise:
this interrupted sleep cycle that has miraculously turned into quality time that I
will never get to relive. This time that only I get to have with him, and
really the only unplugged time I take with him. I press my lips to his forehead, lay him back in his crib, and
run my hand tenderly over his baby soft hair. Pausing there at his bed before returning
to mine, I realize. 3:34 has ironically just become one of my most favorite
parts of the day.
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