And how snuggly he is here, napping through dinner at our favorite taco place. He woke up with a wheezing smile at the meal's end.
In a few minutes, I am going to slip into his dark room and gather his warm slumbering body from his crib to feed him before I go to bed-- dream feeding this is called-- in the hopes that he'll give me 5 or 6 uninterrupted hours. He'll make snuffling noises and breathe a contented sigh when I lie him back down on his back. When he wakes for food somewhere close to dawn, I will find him on his tummy, smashed into a corner, and his room will smell sweet and milky like sleep.
In the morning, I will pretend to eat his tummy, his toes, to wear him on my head like a hat and then that I can't find him up there, looking all around and calling his name while he laughs. He'll eat some more, puke in my hair, have cereal with apples and prunes for breakfast, watch the big boys eat their bagels. He'll nap, suck on things, chew his hands, nurse, fall asleep smashed up against Ben's side, doze off in his car seat, try to crawl, roll himself around the house, poop. He has a busy day ahead, in other words
We're back to normal, you know. A little more wrinkled and worse for the wear, a little more tired, sure. Nowhere near getting a babysitter for all 3 of them. But Cooper is easy now, a part of us, so bound up in our routine, we can't remember how we ever lived without him. Life before Cooper was so long ago, a lifetime, really, that passed in slow days and fast weeks all of them steeped in baby, delicious baby.