Morning
In those early days with a newborn the morning, it seemed, came quickly. After several night feedings, the last of which usually ended around 4:30am, I more often than not found myself with a crick in the neck, slumped over in the rocking chair having fallen asleep before I could convince my exhausted body to move back to my bed. The morning sun would peek through the curtains, a relentless thief who always took with it my hopes for a full six hours. And the knowledge of the day ahead, tired and long, would creep over me.
But then, lying there in my weary arms, would be this tiny little gift to greet me and it was worth the sleeplessness.
As the months went on and he slowly learned to sleep in his own
bed for extended periods I was relieved and yet saddened. It's an absurd reality for a mother who watches her little one grow so quickly, each moment this juxtaposition of lassitude and longing for it to never end.
Even now that I have been blessed with the opportunity to stay home with him and literally spend his every waking hour with him, I still find myself walking out of his room at night and closing his door with a heavy heart. I miss him when he is in his room sleeping. But I do enjoy my mommy alone time. Showering, pinning on Pinterest, even cleaning, without a toddler can be a kind of joy. And yes, I very much enjoy my sleep!
But I find myself waking some nights still at 4. Months of habit to awaken after hearing that soft little cry in the night have proven harder for mommy to break than baby. And so I lie there praying for him, thinking of him, and longing to be with him in the morning once again.
Most mornings I am watching my phone when it is time for the alarm and turn it off before it rings so that it doesn't wake him in the next room, or his father snoring beside me. If I creep as quietly as I can to the bathroom I can usually take a few moments for myself to dress and prepare for the day before he hears me and begins to cry out.
And then I open his door and he exclaims! It used to just be a relieved sort of cry to see a familiar face through the sun's dim early morning rays, but now some days he says, "Mama," and I melt further under his tiny spell. He is standing there in his footed pajamas, his hair a mess and the most perfect smile upon his face. He is his father made over in the mornings. The way he scrunches his face and stretches, narrows his eyes and yawns, and then shows off those dimples in a grin just like his dada's that have won both of them to me!
I pick him up and kiss his sweet lips. His baby, morning breath and gentle hugs embrace me. He is the song in my heart that has made me a morning person. When this son is met by the sun it is pure magic in my heart! His precious soul that dances with my own in some kind of beautiful waltz I can not even begin to explain but that awakens within me this joy I never imagined. Each new day a new chance for adventure, for learning, for love!
"Good morning, baby. I missed you!"
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