Sleep

You are half-dozing in a bouncy chair which I keep moving with the pressure of my knee while I write a bit on a laptop on our coffee table. Last night you slept for five straight hours, most of which I wasted by being awake for no reason. Then after your three am feeding you wanted to be held all morning.

Awhile ago on Twitter some stranger posted that if he could go back in time and tell himself one thing, he would go back, tell himself to get some sleep, and then his present self would stay awake holding the baby all night. I now think about that whenever you drift off to sleep on me. I remind myself to notice it, as it is happening. I try not to jump ahead to when it won't happen anymore, because if I do that I will be sad, and I'm getting better about not thinking back to when I was sure you would never happen, because I was sad then, too.

You are here, right now. Half awake in a secondhand bouncy chair, with your dad asleep in the back and your dog asleep on the sofa under the window and I am awake and writing, just a little. We are here, together, right now.