It's 1:15. You're supposed to be asleep but you're not because a poorly installed diaper just caused a total outfit change. I'm walking you to sleep in a dark house but you're not quite ready. Don't think I don't see you peeking at me through half open eyes to see if I'm still here. I hear your giggle too. I don't need the lights to know you're smiling at me. Maybe because there's spit up on the floor by the stairs. I should remember that before Tom wakes up tomorrow, but there's no way I'm risking setting you down right now to clean it up. It's been 4 passes around the kitchen island since your eyes have opened.

My bicep hurts and my elbow is sweaty from your head, but that won't stop me from continuing this slow dance around the kitchen. For someone who has always prided herself on being a bit selfish when it comes to self care, you're the first person I've met that has the ability to make me put it aside. 

Although small and fragile, you are powerful with your hold over me. I can ignore a lot in this world. Tune out the noise, be practical and get done what needs to be done. Until you cry. And then all logic goes out the window and there's only you and me and whatever it takes to make you happy. I've considered never leaving the house again if it means I won't have to listen to your cries when I can't reach you.

Luckily there are no cries tonight. Even the giggles have subsided and been replaced with deep breathing. I've won the battle tonight, and you've firmly entered the land of deep sleep and baby dreams. While I've managed to settle on the couch, I don't dare put you down - yet. Instead I'll sit here in the dark, listening to the wooshes of the sound machine over your small breaths, and watch you sleep.

Goodnight little one

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