It was 4:45 am. The crescent moon still beaming and the sky inky black. I don’t know if it’s the lingering effects of the time change or the anticipation of the new baby, but Charlotte has been waking up hours before the sun for the last couple weeks.
I remember Lydia doing this too, and I remember fighting it so hard and getting so mad at her because couldn’t she understand that I was exhausted and I was about to have a newborn so my sleep was precious? I’m a little wiser this time. I know fighting it is about as futile as fighting the waves that batter the shore. So, instead I hold her in the dark. I can hear her sucking her thumb with her left hand, and I can feel her holding my hand with her right. Eventually, she snuggles in my ear and says, “I hungry, Momma.” And we leave the warmth of our little blanket nest and head to the kitchen. She finds a granola bar, and I start making hot cocoa. We turn on Pandora to the Mariah Carey Christmas station, and the two of us begin to dance.
Yes, I am tired. Yes, it’s early. Yes, I can count on one hand the number of hours I’ve slept. But this is the only time my little firecracker is still. This is our time–a few stolen moments that I’ll never get back. I love what Lisa-Jo Baker said in Surprised by Motherhood, “That’s where the gospel lives–in the messy chaos of opening up our lives to others.” Carry on, tired mamas. Carry on.