Today

As I start composing this in my head, the cars on the highway outside our window move at a crawl. Through the trees that divide our house from the highway, flashes of red brakelights and yellow headlights hold your attention, even as you are too tired to hold your head up. Far off, above the road, the lights of a plane twinkle and suddenly the twilight sky has a nostalgic feel, like the feeling I get landing at Vancouver airport at dusk. Home. Relief.

You are grunting to the rhythm of my sway, dropping your head against my chest and drawing back like you touched hot coals. You refuse to give in. I don’t speak, just keep moving, knowing you’ll get there eventually.

My day revolves around your naps: when to start lulling you down, how to keep you there long enough, how long it’s been since the last one. Sometimes I feel like I have a spreadsheet in my head. Every day we end with sleep debt. When it’s a big sleep debt, you flail and wail until you pass out. When it’s a small one, you’ll allow yourself to be comforted and put to bed easily.

This morning you were up for the day at 6:20. An hour later you slept for an hour and woke grinning. (For the last couple of days you’ve been grinning at me as though I was the funniest thing since catt butts. I’m flattered you think so.) I took your diaper off so you could kick your legs and practise getting your toes in your mouth and moved you to the bathroom floor so I could have a shower. While I combed my fingers through my hair and pulled the tangles free, you practised your High-Pitched Cry of Surprise and your Low, Throaty Ahhh. Kid, you have no idea how much I needed that shower or how much I appreciated you letting me have it in peace. When I got out I believe I sang you a little song about how a nice long shower without stopping was better than ice cream with butterscotch topping. Of course, that’s just the first thing that came to mind – I don’t really care for butterscotch all that much but you get the idea.

I got both of us dressed and out the door by 9:45 to get to your 10:30 appointment. I even remembered my water bottle and your Passport to Health, which is important or they don’t let you cross the border into Immunizationalia. You fell asleep in the stroller, dappled in sunlight. I dawdled on our way to the clinic to let you sleep a little longer but you woke up as soon as we walked in the door on account of the 18 month old screaming through his booster shot.

We skipped this afternoon’s mom and baby group, even though it’s only 2 blocks away, because you were napping and this week, that’s very rare in the afternoon. You slept for two and a half hours, across my legs and in the crook of my arm, as is your only way during the day.

Even when you’re frustrated and too tired to sleep and you’re kicking me (you’re very good at kicking) and making that new noise that sounds like you’re trying to clear your throat or start your Harley, you still stop occasionally and give me a big grin. I appreciate that. Thank you.

Save some smiles for your dad – he’ll be home soon.