I have to admit, come bedtime, I am ready to clock out for the day and do the things I want to do. I'm tired of wiping chins, noses, and butts. I'm tired of crumbs, milk dribbles, and half-drank sippy cups littering my house. I'm tired of being tired, and I can't ever really go to bed early since Boy C goes to bed around 6 and Girl C goes to bed around 7:30. On the days when Girl C takes a nap, she morphs into this screaming, running, hyperactive little banshee who won't go to bed until at least 8:30. So, by then, I'm anticipating Boy C to wake up for his 9:30 (on the nose) feeding.
But that feeding is my favorite. I've had a little time to unwind from both kids, have a glass of wine if the day dictated I needed one, and clean the house without fear of it looking like I'm a hoarder 37 seconds later.
It's my favorite because I've missed my kids. I've missed holding my baby boy in my arms. I've missed the weight of him, the specific areas his little body puts pressure and the way my muscles have to move and flex as they cradle his head, body, and arms. I've missed his smell, his noise, and the way his downy hair tickles my lips and chin as I drink in his baby smell. I'm awake enough to enjoy this moment of him and I in the quiet and dark room - just us. And then I put him back in his crib and pull up his blanket to him and smile as he puts two fingers in his mouth (just like his big sister), grabs the blanket and rolls over, snuggling himself back to sleep.
Then, I tip toe over to Girl C's room and smile at what position she's chosen to sleep in, kiss her little forehead, and turn off her light.
That's my favorite.
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