Morning Goodbye

Your phone alarm jolts us out of sleep.  My eyes wander to the clock. 5:47 AM.  

How many feedings throughout the night?  At least four.  I can’t really remember. 

But I remember that little hand creeping up, tugging my lip and wandering to my nose.  The rhythmic motion of the rocking in the dark room, lit by her little aquarium night light, with her name in pink sparkles on the wall.  Drifting in and out of sleep, waking to see her still eating, still tugging my lip with her little fingers.  She’s compelled to trace the features of mommy’s face in the wee hours of the morning.  

Between tracings, we slept at least a little last night, I think.  

Now, I drift away while you shower, and before you return I hear the chatter in surround sound.  She’s only a door away, but I keep the monitor sound turned up.  Safeguard.  We do crazy things for peace of mind.  I listen, tuning in for signs of distress.  If she is content, I will stay, wrapped up for a few more sacred moments, clinging to the hope of more sleep.  

You come in from your shower.  “I think she’s stirring.”  I wish that you could stay.  

For a millisecond, I have a vague memory of sleeping past 6:30 AM.  I will myself out from under the warmth of the covers, glancing at the monitor one last time before the morning greeting.  

I adore the first recognition of the day.  I stumble in her dark room with a forced cheerful “good morning.” Her smile, the sunrise, greets my blurry vision, clearing it in an instant. Suddenly genuine joy infiltrates my visage. Her baby jabber sounds something like, “YAY! Mommy’s here!”.  My heart leaps.  

The deep comfort of coffee wanders to my nose, and I remember that you have my back. You programmed the pot last night. I am infinitely grateful.  She bounces in her jumper, jabbering at the kitties, who keep a cautious distance.  Her affection still looks like pulling of hair and tugging of tails.   

As I sip the rich dark gift that you left for me,  you hesitate for a few seconds. I know that you would rather stay and play.  I inwardly sigh and say goodbye.  A lingering kiss.  You call her “Bug.” She flashes you a smile, giggles, and returns to the plastic sunshine, bouncing a bit more enthusiastically.  We watch you go, and look forward to your return.  She can't communicate it yet, but she wishes you could stay. We miss you more than you know.