source: bigoo.ws

It starts around 7:30… the little shuffles and shifts that mean my daughter is slowly, peacefully shifting from deep sleep to something lighter.  She’s gradually preparing to wake up.

Around 8, when I know she’ll wake up sometime in the next half hour, I start to get little tingles of excitement… I really do feel a bit like a kid on Christmas morning.  In my head, I play out the scene as it happens every morning.  I open her door to find her standing up in her crib, head and shoulders well above the top (my tall girl!) as she leans forward a little to peek around the corner and watch me come into the room.

Immediately she’s smiling.  “Hi!” she announces in a big, happy squeal.  I tell her good morning and ask her how she slept as I cross her tiny room to left the shade and let some sunlight in.  Her eyes still look a little sleepy as she talks to me, telling me all about her dreams in her silly, perfect baby language.

I hold my arms out to her and she pats my back as I lift her out of the crib.  We make the rounds, saying good morning to the sun, the trees, her “basket of friends”, Mr. Banana, Mr. Bear, Big Sheep, and any other toys she’s left on display.  We pick out her clothes for the day, often resulting in shorts-as-hat.  She tells me more in her secret language as we get her dressed for the morning.

I ask her to “hold your Mama,” and she wraps her tiny arms around my neck so I can carry her into the kitchen.  We fill up a sippy cup with her morning milk and retire to the couch, where she snuggles up against me to drink her milk and watch her morning cartoons.  She holds her milk with one hand and my hand with the other.

My life?  It’s sort of perfect.

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