And Miles to go Before I Sleep

Madeline's been sick. Anyone who's had a child can tell you there are few things worse than having a sick baby. Having one who can't communicate with you is even worse. She's been scorching hot, runny nose, and very whiny and clingy. It can wear you down quicker than just about anything else. Sleep patterns are interrupted, eating slows down to just about nothing, and days move like a snail with a disability. 6:00 on Friday couldn't come quickly enough.

Daddy worked his usual magic and cheered Madeline up and put her to bed with little problem. We decided to build a fire outside since it was nice and chilly. He got a nice fire going in the fire pit and I got some bananas ready for our favourite fire-pit snack. We spent the evening gazing up at the amazing stars and being very thankful for the safe passage of another week.

We climbed into bed around 11 and, as usual, I stayed up to read a few minutes. I am presently reading a book called "Crossing Over" - about a woman who leaves the Amish life. She tells, in great detail, the pain it caused her family. How terribly she felt about leaving her mother. And now, she found herself unable to have children of her own.

For some reason that hit me incredibly hard. It had been a rougher than normal week with Madeline, and I wasn't exactly thanking my lucky stars for being at home with her all day every day. But at that moment, I felt so lucky to have her that I had to get up and look at her.

I sneaked into her room, trying not to make a peep, and found her sleeping on her tummy with her little butt up in the air. One arm flung over her new favourite stuffed animal. I couldn't get over how long she was. The first time I put her in that crib it looked like it was going to swallow her up. Now, I don't know how she'll stay in it much longer. Tears rushed into my eyes and I realized how quickly the time was passing. A little over a month and my little precious will be a year old.

I reached over the crib and picked up my sleeping baby. She was warm and flushed, and her head fell into my shoulder as I picked her up. We sat in the rocking chair and I just took in the moment. Her fuzzy head tickling my chin, her little hand grasping onto the neckline of my t-shirt, the rhythm of her breathing, her smell - a smell I could pick out of 100 babies.

I felt my tears run onto her face and splash onto her pajamas. Her long body completely covering her old, uterine, home.

I obviously wasn't the only one coming into her room at night. Time had been stealing in unbeknownst to me. Replacing my needy, infantile baby with a strong, beautiful....toddler.

I held her for a long time. I know picking up a sleeping baby is the first in line of "things never ever to do", but I didn't care. I didn't care if I woke her up and had to spend the rest of the night rocking her back to sleep. I had to hold my baby at that moment. I had to burn it into my memory. I know, that when she goes off to kindergarten, college, or to the home of another - I will remember that night.

I finally put her down, but I couldn't leave. I found a few of her extra blankets and laid down beside the crib. It was a good feeling to be so close to her,knowing that anything that would come in to harm her would have to come through me first. (In other words, it would meet with certain *very painful* death.)

I laid still and listened to her get resettled, like a pearl, never realizing she had been taken out of her shell and admired. I couldn't stop from crying. I just wished I could freeze that very moment for a year or so.

But I couldn't, and I know....that I wouldn't really want to.

But that night, time would have to pass without entrance.