Cooing and raspberries sing through the monitor, whirring my brain back to life slowly, a wheel sluggish to gain momentum. The weight of my body sinks into the mattress as I reluctantly roll over toward the small black and white screen sitting on my bedside table, thinking, “Mmm not yet, little guy, please not yet...”
I struggle to open my eyes, sticky from another night of forgetting to take my contacts out. Blink, blink, blink, I do my best to flood them with water. The image gets clearer, and the vague movement turns into the baby's pajamas twisting and turning this way and that. Learning to crawl, his body contorts in a series of yoga poses: downward dog, plank, cat / cow, child's, and downward dog again. My heart skips a beat in excitement. Because ten hours without your best buddy is too long, you know.
I throw my legs over the side of the bed and feel my flip flops waiting for me, but it's way too early for hard plastic on my feet. I can't be bothered with angling my toes to put them on, so I kick them aside and shuffle to the door barefoot.
When I get to his nursery, the top of his head is visible over the crib railing, but he can't see me. Bobbing up and down, he practices his new trick, getting up on all fours and belly flopping back down again. I ease the door closed and sneak over to his crib.
Through the crib rails, I whisper, "Pssst. Pssst." He stops all movement and his head snaps up, his baby blues wide with expectation. He finds me peaking down at him, our eyes meet, and our faces explode with smiles.
I wonder what he might be thinking, "She's back! She came back for me!"
All I can think, though, is something my parents said to me many moons ago:
“I love you more than yesterday, but a little less than tomorrow.”
Sometimes I wonder how I've gotten through the past six months with a baby? But mostly, I wonder how I got through twenty eight years without him.
Thanks for reading Day 10 of #100daysofmicrostories! :-)