i want to remember this morning. When you woke up early and tip-toed out to make coffee and to let the dogs into the garden. and the baby didn’t wake from her sleep and you came back to bed and we snuggled under the covers as the sun began rising over the mountains.
and still the baby didn’t stir. we finished our coffee in comfortable silence.
so you took the dogs for a walk and i didn’t know what to do. I crept into my office and pulled out my journal to record this morning – to put down in black and white that not every day is hard; that not every day starts without a chance to breathe or to gather your thoughts. That some days can still start with peace and a little loving. it will not always be full-on. It will not always be bickering and comparing and who did what and whose turn it is now. the baby will sleep again. you will have time once more to write and walk and breathe deep. You will be able to snuggle and drink coffee in silence and watch the sun rise over the mountains. The air will be still and your mind will be calm and you will be able to sit and think and create.
and once you have dipped your toe and then, gently, lowered your entire self into the cool soft waters of you, tasted on your lips the salt of what was and the sweetness of what will be, you will begin to miss her. and you will pad back up the hall and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at her in her blissful beauty and you will will her awake. Maybe you even open the cupboard door – the one with the noisy squeak. See if she squirms a little. Nope, not even a flinch.
you have more time. you can make yourself a big breakfast. perhaps run a bubble bath. brush your teeth. or you can just keep watching her. yes, that’s probably just what you will do.