Dear Tater Tot,
As I type this, you are squirming and fussing in my arms. You were down for an hour and a half but now you're frustrated and fighting your way back to dreamland. I know from experience that it will not be a swift fight. Your eyes flutter open then closed again, your tiny fingers scratching, grabbing, twisting my bra strap, tangling in my hair, playing with the edge of my sleeve, desperate for some physical contact and comfort that only I can provide. The Nugget has his giraffe, Spork has his blankie, but you take no lovie but me. You buck and arch your back, act like you want me to put you down but you don't. You want me to hold you tighter, cuddle you closer, so you can forget the pain your tiny teeth are causing you as they burrow through your gums.
I am tired from a long, physical day of lifting babies, changing diapers, running to keep up with the Nugget, fixing meals, doing dishes. I want to sink into the soft couch and relax unencumbered. But for you I have waited and prayed, filled out countless forms and attended classes, begged and pleaded to the universe. And here you are, fighting for your sleep and begging me for a mama's help. You cry out and fling your binky because it's not helping you. But a few seconds later, you will fuss and reach for it, and I'll have it ready for you.
This is the dance, the tired hazy dance of mother and child, performed on an uncomfortable office chair and witnessed by the hum and glow of the computer screen. This feels like forever but is but a blink of an eye. This is love.