You woke up at 5:30 this morning and like every morning, we carried you up stairs and you snuggled in between us, nursed and went back to sleep. Except you woke a few minutes later, squirmed and fussed a bit; normally you are out for the count and sleep for another hour and a half or so. I changed your diaper and laid back down, you on my chest. You nuzzled your sweet little head onto my chest and wrapped your body around me like a blanket. Now you're just breathing in and out with the slightest sound, just enough to consider it a sweet little baby snore. Laying here with the filtered morning light glowing in the room and at least 45 minutes into your nap, I can't go back to sleep. Which is just fine because I get to soak up all this wonderful miracle that is your fleeting last days as a baby. The realization danced into my head, from back to front, confirming that there is no place I'd rather be, no thing I'd rather be doing and no better use of my body here on Earth than to lay here and let you sleep.
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