Today, my husband’s phone vibrated, announcing the arrival of the morning. He slowly rose from the bed to take a shower (or as his sister says “shake a tower”). I lingered between the sheets, between sleep and wakefulness.
The cloud-filtered gray light grew steadily brighter when my husband returned from the shower, and I emerged from the warmth of the bed. As we dressed, my husband and I laughed at the idiosyncrasies of his co-workers. We chatted about our day and our upcoming journey to North Carolina.
Little coos from the next room alerted us that our child was awake but not yet upset. Together we slipped into his room.
The child greeted us with a broad grin and pumped his arms up and down against the mattress. We played peek-a-boo gently covering his head in the fuzzy blanket. He smiled all the brighter.
My husband went down the steps to prepare breakfast while I nursed the Squiggle. I could hear him pouring water into the tea kettle and toasting bagels for breakfast. I held the baby to my chest with one arm and with the other hand felt his tiny body under his footed pajamas. His chubby knee, his soft arms, his tiny abdomen — I thought of each as my fingers brushed them. Then he caught my finger in his plump palm and we held hands. The baby’s brilliant blue eyes locked with mine.
This is happiness, I thought. Bottle this morning and store the memory for less pleasant days.