I was lost in dreamland, floating far from home, when suddenly my eyes snapped open and my mind returned to my bed. At first I didn’t know why…it was hours until dawn and the house seemed quiet.
Then I heard it. The heartbroken wail of a lonely child.
Next to me, my husband groaned, “Just ignore it. She might go back to sleep.”
But I knew that cry. It was one that would not be denied.
So I got up. Seconds after stumbling to her crib, I realized she had a darn good reason to be upset—she’d suffered Extreme Diaper Failure and was soaked to the bone. As was her bedding.
By the time I got her into some clean pajamas and had changed her sheets, we were both too awake to go back to sleep. Instead, I made Tori a bottle and snuggled up with her in the big blue recliner, whispering sweet nothings as the milk soothed the last of her hiccuping sobs away.
After she finished, she twisted in my arms to face me and babbled to me about her dreams, or so I imagined. Then, all talked out, she tangled her fist in my hair, buried her head on my shoulder and zonked out, snores slipping from her open mouth.
Looking at her peaceful face, my heart cracked anew along the long-since established fault lines.
My baby. Mine. Through 4 a.m. wakings and 4 p.m. giggles, fussy Fridays, wacky Wednesdays and sunny Sundays, she was mine. How did I get so lucky?
Eventually I went back to bed, and when I awoke for real, there were breakfasts made, cards opened and gifts presented. Family fun was had, and the happiness I felt sang down my spine to the tips of my toes.
But I got all I really needed for Mother’s Day at 5 a.m., looking at her gorgeous little face as the drool pooled on my shoulder.
Happy Mother’s Day indeed.