Tonight I was curled up next to my 4-year-old, my eyes half-mast. “I’m so tired. I just may fall asleep right here beside you.”
“And stay here all night?” she asked hopefully. It’s been an adjustment for my two younger daughters to not be able to sleep with me now that I have to night-nurture my little man and can’t safely co-sleep with everybody. Nor can I imagine how crowded our bed would be with five and occasionally six people in it since my 7-year-old still periodically migrates to our room. (For some co-sleeping humor, check this out.)
“Well, I’ll stay here until Thomas wakes up. Then I’ll have to go sleep with him.”
“Would it be a miracle if he didn’t need you all night?”
“Would it be really, really, really a miracle if he didn’t need you?”
Not even two seconds later, I could faintly detect a noise rising up from below us that sounded an awful lot like a baby wailing.
“I think I hear Thomas,” my sweet, understanding daughter said.
No miracles for me tonight. In fact, I’m typing standing up as I bounce my baby boy in my Ergo, his head completely burrowed into my chest.
Sleep is overrated. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.