night night

This is how she falls asleep in the mid-morning: grunting and thrashing against the rest that is so dreadfully needed. I am rocking her in her room. Blankie held tight against her nose as she looks at me with eyes the color of bluebells. She smells of toast and yogurt. As she slowly falls into that place of sleep I can put my nose there, at the base of her head, where her downy-soft hair is even softer, where an ineffable baby-smell still clings. This is the place she hides her best gifts to me during the day.

This is how she falls asleep in the afternoon: wiping crumbs from her face, nestling against her blankie, smelling of sunshine and alphabet blocks. I am rocking her in her room. The light is blue against the blanket that hangs in the window to block out the most blaring rays. The rushing sound of waves on the radio. I can kiss her as she drifts in my arms. Her eyelashes rest quietly against her cheek.

This is how she falls asleep in the evening: after her bath and lotion rub-down, after the jammies are zipped and footies are wrestled, after teethbrushing and prayers and a story. In her bed. In her room. No longer in my arms. She rolls around, rubbing blankie against her face. She doesn't cry. We are watching her from a corner as we have been for the last 10 days - inching closer to the door - letting her know we are here for her should she need us as we bid goodbye to babyhood, bid goodbye to the silent conversations of kisses and cuddles when eyelashes are resting so soundly on a little girl's cheeks.

This is how we fall asleep every night: thankful to have her, thankful to be her parents. Soundly. Quietly. Peacefully.