He was up at five this morning, a little before the birds began to wake up the world with their obnoxious sweet hymns.  The world was dark and quiet still except for him, grunting and struggling to get comfortable over the baby monitor.  I had fallen into restless sleep just a few short hours before, after I deliberately picked a fight with my husband.  It had been late and I was still very tired.

One two, I stared at my sleeping husband and thought, “Fuck you.”  He snored loudly in response. 

Three four, my bare feet hit the floor. 

The noises on the monitor stopped and I held my breath.  As his groans began again I breathed out slowly and grabbed a rubber band, disregarded without energy only four odd hours before, and my hair was carelessly whisked into a ponytail.

Five six, I heard the click click click of the baby running his hand along the bars of his crib as my feet drew me closer to his room. 

I opened the door and low lights poured into his crib as he let out a low wail.  He sat up, rubbing his eyes and blubbering incoherent baby speak about whatever upset him, and he lifted his chubby arms up, squinting at me.  His face was covered in thick tears, which ran from his almond shaped eyes down the huge hills of his cheeks and dripped off under his chin.  I closed the door and pulled him towards me, wrapping him in a long hug as I responded back to him in equally unintelligible sleep deprived Mommy speak.  Somehow we both understood each other and he pressed his face into my right arm as I began to gently bounce him back to sleep. 

Seven eight, it will never be too late for you.


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