He’s wiggling around and making little grunts. When he was first born, she would wake up when he was in the middle of a full on cry. She realizes at this moment that she hasn’t woken up to his actual cries in a very long time, that she can always hear him moving around first. That makes her sad. She can’t remember the last time she was in that deep, peaceful, luscious version of sleep that she took for granted as a teenager.
She looks over to her husband’s side of the bed and tries to look passed his comfortableness, in that fluffy blanket cocoon and pleasant obliviousness to any open eyes in the room, and looks at the clock on his nightstand. 3:24 am. She looks away and can’t remember the exact numbers she saw anymore. It’s always 3:20something, not sure why she even had to look. It’s a habit now, she supposes, to see how much sleep she’s gotten. After figuring out the math in her head for a few seconds, it isn’t much. Just like the other nights she had counted.
The babe’s still moving around and she feels like a robot as she removes the warm blanket from her body. It’s not exactly hard to get out of bed anymore. And she’s finally able to leave the lights turned off when all three of them are asleep in the room. She’s finding a routine. When they first brought him home from the hospital, she had kept a lamp on all night. She wanted to watch his breathing, make sure he was still alive. Some nights she lay with her head at the foot of the bed so she could see him better, when she watched him for so long that it became time to feed him again. In the hospital, she had requested that he stay in the room with her every night they had to be there. She didn’t trust anyone else to treat her babe with the love she did.