There’s this sacred window of opportunity where I’m winning the battle of sleeps with my tired fussy baby.
I’ve fed him, changed him, shushed him, prayed over him; his droopy eyes and limbs seem to be cooperating.
As his body goes limp, I know it’s now or never. Delicately, I lay him to sleep, secretly rejoicing for this gift of solitude.
Success! I know he’s tired. He needs his sleep. I do the math and estimate about a 2-hour nap.
My heart races with joy thinking of all the things I can squeeze into 2 hours: reading, workout, writing, chilling, cooking, shower… excited, I brew some hot tea and open my laptop to maybe write or catch up on some reading.
“ahh-hek ahh-hek aaaa aaaa …”
Quiet and faint at first, like a distant train. My ears must be playing tricks on me. He can’t be awake, I just put him to sleep 15 minutes ago.
The whimpering gains full steam and before you know it it’s full on wailing—the train has arrived.
“Wouaaa wouaaa wu wu wouaaaaaaaaaa WAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!”
As quickly as my dreams of mommy time formed, they fade away. The peace and quiet dissipate. Time to throw away that tea.
Naps are overrated anyway. I’ll dream again tomorrow.