So I don't forget

Last night, it was freakishly cold for Northern Alabama. Micah's room is located on the opposite end of the house from our 15-year-old, none-too-efficient heat pump, and with temperatures in the single digits, his room, predictably, got pretty chilly. And so the baby woke up at 3 AM.

After three nights of uninterrupted sleep, getting up to feed him was hard. I staggered into his room in a stupor (while Todd blearily focused on NOT accidentally putting the diaper on Micah's head) and sat down to nurse. And the child was WIDE AWAKE. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, even. He finished his meal and he was STILL awake. I laid him down in his warmed crib, tucked his blankets around him, and crawled back to my bed, hoping he'd settle back down. Thirty minutes later, he was still happily talking to himself. Not upset, not crying. Just having a good ol' time. AT FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.

Finally, it clicked that his room was probably still too cold for him to sleep, and I brought him back to bed with me. I tucked him in beside me, and he turned his face up to smile at me in the dark. I curled around him, and he pushed his ice-cold hands into my stomach and snuggled his face up against my chest. Then, slowly, he fell asleep. A little warm bundle, dressed in paw-print fleece, his chubby fists locked on the front of my shirt, his breath tickling my bare arm. And as I fell asleep, all I could think was how lucky I am, and how I wouldn't trade this for anything in the world.