The farmer works from sun to sun...

I am about to sit down at last after a long day but B is crying, again. I change course and push the door open into the room that we share. He's in his sidecar bed, eyes closed, head frantically rubbing from side to side, looking for his pacifier, looking for me. I lay beside him, rubbing his back, kissing his head, singing and saying "shhhhh, shhhhh" for what seems like forever until finally he relaxes into sleep.

Tiptoeing out I hear A calling to me from the next room. Peeking my head in I see him trying to suppress a smile in order to convey the seriousness of his need. "I need something" he says, "I need someone to lay by me." Not being a snuggler, his is a request that has only begun in the past few weeks, though now he asks nightly. I crawl into bed with him and he puts his feet across my knees and his head to my head. Though I am a snuggler, my need for some rest at the end of the day sends me urgent messages - get out of here as quickly as you can! I do my best to supress the message and stay in the moment; its not often that A has the inclination or I have the time to just sit quietly alone with him. We both need this.

But I don't linger long, knowing that B was only lightly asleep and not wanting him to wake and get so worked up that I can't get him back down. And sure enough, as I close the door with a kiss blown towards still-wakful A, I hear the pitiful cries of my insomniac infant. This time, he will not be soothed until I nurse him. With a full tummy he is willing to lie alone in his bed, for a few minutes anyway. I gaze on his sleepy-baby body and try to conjure the feelings of wonder that come so easily to me when I am well rested. The only wondering I'm doing these days is "will I get a two hour stretch to sleep, or only fifteen minutes at a time tonight?"

Back out in the living room I've actually managed to sit down and look with despair at the dishes, the toys, the laundry, the paperwork, when I hear my name being called yet again. I walk to A's door and remind him that he has Blanket, that I've sung him his last song, that I rested with him already, that's he's already had water, that he can go pee-pee in his night-night-time diaper if needed, that he must try and go to sleep by himself.

And so it goes.

Is there a way that I could bottle up just a bit of the ongoing, never-ending, giving that fills every moment of the day and night and store it up for the days when they sleep not only away from me, but far away? I ask only for enough sleep that I can be present enough to realize that these are the best and most fleeting days of my life.

Cross-posted from Catherine's personal blog, everyday life as lyric poetry.