Stolen Moments

Lately I have started to find a pattern between your mother and me. It happens right after the chain is pulled and the fan starts whirling, the lights turn off and our "good nights" are said. I can hear us both punching pillows molding them to our preferred positions—our bodies searching for the familiar grooves in the mattress, which now that your mother is pregnant again, seem harder for her to find:). But as our bodies slowly melt into our familiar positions on our sides of the bed there is a moment of silence, each of us looking at sleep square in the eye wondering if it will come swiftly or if it will take its sweet time.

Then there is that moment—a huff or a roll, something alerting the other that it's not quite time yet. And then it happens. It usually starts with a funny moment in the day. Like how you demand that we "sit" when trying to get you out of bed. Or how now that you are in your hording stage, you "take" random things. Everything from the most inconspicuous item, a Nilla Wafer, to the most conspicuous, our dryer vent. It all ends up underneath your arm as you say "take." Usually moving from one point to another, gathering things and setting them down in what would appear to be arbitrary places. Moving to-and-fro with assembly line-like precision until your 19 month old curiosity kicks in and you find something else to distract you. Or we tell each other about the new word you learned that day and how we can't comprehend how much you are talking now. And by the way, "when did he start saying "watch" before he jumped on the pillows?"

We spend those last moments in the dark, talking about you. How special you are. How brilliant you are. Knowing that we have no other baseline for your brilliance, but knowing that you must be the most brilliant of all the children in the world. We know that you are special not because of any one thing but rather because of one important thing - you are ours.

We share these moments in the last moments of our day, and though I have never asked her, I know that she is smiling as we talk. Our moments to reflect on your perfectness, on our happiness. Our moments to share softly together in the darkest part of the night our most bright spots of the day.

And then as quickly as the conversation starts it ends. Usually with another non-verbal cue, a heavy breath, a prolonged silence, and we both know that sleep is creeping in. So we roll over and wait. Listening to your breaths over the monitor, us laying side by side and knowing that no matter what happened that day, that because of you we had a good day.