From the moment we heard your tiny cry fill the operating room, you have brought such joy to our lives. You have grown, these past six and a half months, from a sleepy bundle, ever snuggling into our arms, into a baby more enchanting than we could have imagined. Daddy and I agree, your smile is a beam of sunlight. Your hair smells of heaven. And when you sit on my hip, linking your arm into the crook of mine, as if we are taking a passeggiata through an Italian hill town, I find myself unwilling to put you down.
Your brothers adore you, tripping over each other to be the first to give you hugs. They lie on the floor and stare into your eyes, chatting and singing to you, desiring only to hear the song of your laughter.
You have Auntie and every one of your grandparents wrapped around your finger with the way you perch happily on their laps, making them believe the truth: that there's nowhere you'd rather be at that moment.
Friends and strangers alike, are compelled to pause, no matter where we are, and comment on your engaging personality.
To put it simply, you are a delight.
And as your mother, I, above all, treasure time spent with you.
But our late night rendezvous? They've got to stop.
For the first few months, it was okay, this night waking habit of yours. Growing is hard work, and with your tiny tummy, I expected you to need middle of the night feedings.
And you've had five teeth tear through your gums, so I understand why you would cry out, needing medicine, or even the comfort of nursing, to relieve the pain.
But now, when you scream for me in the darkest hours of night, you flash that gorgeous smile the instant I appear at your crib. The one that both melts my heart and raises my hackles. For that smile tells me you are not hungry. That smile says you want company. Someone to break the monotony of sleep.
But for me, my darling, sleep is not monotony. It's a long lost friend, and I've been desperate to reconnect.
While it may seem as though I'm learning to live in a new state of normal, this is merely survival mode, fuled by an unhealthy level of coffee consumption. These months of fractured sleep have taken a toll on my stores of patience and left me with an embarrassingly severe case of mommy brain.
Honestly, I'm barely hanging on over here.
There is but one cure.
So tonight, when I kiss the top of your head and say,
I love you, sweet boy. Sweet dreams.
I will pray, once again, that this is the night - the glorious night - those magic words allow us both to sleep until morning light.
Love you forever,
PS - But seriously, knock it off.
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