I hear him first at 5:15 AM, earlier than usual even for our early riser. I wait and listen to see if he will go back to sleep. I doze on and off, thinking about all I have to do today as the early morning light seeps through the cracks in the curtains, slowly filling the room. 5:45 the screaming begins. Louder than usual, Loud enough for my husband to quick run and bring the little buddy, weeping and blurry eyed into our bed in the hopes of all of us getting at bit more sleep. But instead we get a kicking, climbing, clawing, crawling, standing boy who is too tired to settle, too awake to sleep and probably wet and hungry as well. I remind myself that someday I will look back nostalgically at these moments as I start the day a bit earlier than I had planned, tagalong in tow.
He inhales his breakfast as I sit at the kitchen table and try to get my mind awake and organized. The room is filled with the sounds of his white noise machine whoosing through the monitor. I left it on in the hopes of keeping his sister abed for a bit longer. The refrigerator hums. His grunting, munching, slurping, sputtering, coughing and shrieks for more fill in the rest. Yet this is probably my “quiet moment” for the day. I strain my heart for the lesson in today’s moment when I would much rather enjoy my breakfast in solitude. I shoot off a simple prayer, “Help me to hear you, help me to listen, even in all of this.”
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