In an effort to practice more writing and less blogging (and to try to work up to that 1000 words a day goal that I wrote about and subsequently ignored) I’m going to start posting a writer’s style weekend recap on Mondays. A post where I talk about my weekend at great length with lots of details on specific feelings and such, and less of a bulleted run-down with pictures in-between. So, you’ll either love it or hate it. But at the very least, I hope you appreciate it.
I often wake up in the middle of the night now. I guess I should put a disclaimer on that and say that ever since I got married I would often wake up in the middle of the night. Those first few months of sleeping in our full size bed I woke up wondering why there was a boy in my bed and I couldn’t figure out what room I was in. Then I started waking up because the husband would thrash about and smack me repeatedly in the face (at which point I told him it was a queen size bed or a divorce).
But now, now I wake up in the middle of the night when there’s crying coming through our baby monitor. More often than not the crying comes from the littlest, who is merely uncomfortable and she begins to whine. So one of us trudges down the stairs to move her pillow off her face, or to unstick her from between the bed and her railing, or to untwist her from her blanket so she can roll over.
Sometimes, though, the crying comes from this deep rooted pain. Terror echoes throughout the house at 1AM, 2AM, or fifteen minutes before the alarm is supposed to ring. Those times the both of us shoot out of bed, racing each other down the stairs and bust down the door to see which of the monsters that live under the bed are wreaking havoc on our daughter’s sleep. One of us lays with the little that’s asleep, so that she doesn’t wake up to the screams and become afraid herself; the other tries to comfort the tearful little by praying to her, stroking her head, rocking her in the chair.
I think it’s safe to say that I cherish late evenings, now that they’re few and far between. I cherish those hours and minutes where it’s just me and the husband playing cards at the table or watching HIMYM on the laptop in our bed. Sometimes we use that time to discuss everything about our days the last few weeks, or we discuss how God is moving in our lives, or what we love most about each other. Sometimes we don’t talk at all and we just mindlessly watch one episode after another snuggled under a pile of blankets because our HVAC system is out of whack and our bedroom is the coldest now that we have to put on our AC at night so the girls don’t drown in their own sweat.
But no matter how the night goes, no matter how many times we get up throughout the night, no matter how many cokes I have to drink to get through the next morning, no matter how long the terror lasts or how long it took to get the little back to sleep, when that sunlight bursts through all our windows, it brings a promise of a new beginning and a fresh start. It brings with it a promise of better things to come.
Best of all, it brings with it four sets of chubby cheeks that I can’t help but squeeze, and four wide-eyes that have forgotten the past few hours and are lit up with what the day will hold. Two smiles that brighten my own day when I walk into their room, and two bellies full of laughter so loud and glorious, no monster under the bed could ever survive.