How Things Fall Apart

Sleep comes in short intervals. By the time we wake, we’ve no idea how much sleep we’ve actually gotten. It becomes clear in the first couple hours of being awake, though, whether or not we’ve had enough and then, of course, it’s too late to do anything about it.

We begin each day with the best intentions: to clean the house, to rake the leaves in the yard, to walk the dog, to find time to hang out together. And then we spend the day feeding the baby, and walking around with the baby, and cuddling the baby, cleaning the baby, and changing diapers and making bottles and the days become filled with baby minutiae.

Still, the baby is breathtakingly beautiful. Every noise he makes can break your heart. Every movement seems, somehow, to be a small miracle. When he sleeps, his entire body goes limp, and we drape him over us like a tiny blanket. Awake, his dark eyes scan the room and he is completely alert. Having spent hours analyzing our book shelves (hopefully our book collections have passed judgment), he has taken to focusing more on us, our faces, studying us. Sometimes he will start crying shortly thereafter, which seems a bit critical, if you ask me.

So yeah, I may miss sleep. But I wouldn’t trade it.