Sometimes, hands filled with a wiggling, bouncing not-quite-five month old, I find a corner of my mind running lists of things I need to do, should do. There’s another list for the things I should have done and the deadlines that like to sneak up on me.
I smile and play pat-a-cake and don’t get me wrong: I love ever moment of it. I love the wiggles, and the giggles, and the little grabby hands that try to help me type while I’m working and send emails for me when I get up to grab a glass of water.
I don’t want these days to ever end. I just can’t seem to keep up with it all. So I think about nap time. Those sometimes 30 minutes (if I’m lucky!) of not having to worry if she’s about to roll herself into some disaster or to be distracted by baby talk and books when I “should” be working to keep ahead of a deadline.
But then she falls asleep. Snuggled against me, with a tiny hand holding onto mine. Fuzzy little head, nestled against my shoulder or chest. Perfect little nose. Little sleeping eyes.
I’m tired, maybe. I could type and work with two hands for a few minutes, yes.
But I just can’t do it. I can’t put her down.