. . .
I hear Gabe stirring, but ignore him because I am so tired that I'm certain my eyelids are too heavy to open.
I hear Mike talk to him, and Gabe lets out a delighted squeal.
Mike gets out of bed; he comes back and he talks to Gabe as he changes his diaper. Gabe responds happily with gurgles and giggles.
I bury my head deeper in my wonderful, soft pillow, hoping to avoid waking completely. Trying to cling on to this lovely, sleepy place.
. . .
I set Gabe down on the carpet in the living room to pour myself some Cheerios and a cup of coffee in kitchen.
I take two steps and he is whining.
I groan, but then catch myself and remember how quickly he will grow out of this stage. How quickly he will no longer be a little baby who wants nothing more than to be held by his mama.
I scoop him up and plop him on my hip. I get my breakfast one-handed.
. . .
Gabe sits on the carpet while I work.
His toys bore him, or more likely, he's thrown them all out of his reach.
He whines, so I turn around and make some silly faces.
He smiles.
I turn back around and continue working.
He whines.
A game of peekaboo commences.
. . .
. . .
We sit in Gabe's quiet, dark room. The ocean waves are crashing on his sound machine.
I nurse Gabe, then rock him, cradling his little body close to mine.
He buries his head in my arm and relaxes.
We rock back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
I play Words with Friends on my iPod while the seahorse plays its lullabies.
I remind myself to recharge the seahorse's batteries. It sounds like a dying cat, but Gabe doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are closed and his long eyelashes kiss his round cheeks.
I place Gabe in his crib and sneak out of his room.
. . .
I design. And design. And design some more.
I return client emails. I find new color combinations. I download some brushes for inspiration.
"I've been so productive today!" I say.
"I so have not!" he says.
. . .
Mike and I have a date with Jillian Michaels.
He makes me laugh while we do jumping jacks, crunches, and push ups.
He kicks my butt, literally, during butt kicks. How predictable.
We give each other a sweaty high-five for completing day eight of the 30 Day Shred.
. . .
. . .
The afternoon is amazing.
The weather is so delicious I want to eat it with a spoon.
I want to stay outside forever.
I want to marry spring and have its babies.
Instead, we walk. And walk. And walk.
And walk some more.
We talk about our summer. About our hopes. About our summer goals. About where we want to go and what we want to read. About sno-cones and street fairs.
"What's your summer mission statement?"
Surprisingly, he doesn't laugh at the question.
He must know he's married a dork.
. . .
Gabe is awake from a nap, crying.
I walk into his room and he stops crying when he hears my voice.
His face lights up and I lift him out of his crib, squeezing him close to me.
I kiss his tiny little lips, my favorite.
Even two hours away from me makes me miss him.
It's so silly and, yet, so true.
. . .
We make taco bowls for lunch.
Gabe eats a grain of rice at a time, or the tiniest forkful of refried beans.
He leans forward with an open mouth like a baby bird.
. . .
. . .
He sits on the couch next to me and wraps his arms around me.
I hug him back and rest my head on his shoulder.
Gabe looks at us and start whining.
"Aw, Gabe. Do you want a hug, too?"
We go over together, each pick him up by one arm and carry him back to the couch.
We hug. All three of us. Corny and silly and lovely.
Gabe whines again and twists away.
. . .
He's fussing.
"Milk? You want milk? Are you hungry?"
He nurses lazily, rubbing his feet together, running his hand up and down my arm.
I can't tell if he's hungry or just wants to cuddle.
I always indulge him.
. . .
We get take out from a restaurant in our neighborhood. Veggie burgers and sweet potato fries.
After Gabe is asleep, we eat our dinner on the couch with lots ketchup and watch a movie on Netflix.
I type away on my laptop and Mike reads the news on his.
. . .
. . .
I realize my quiet life is rather wonderful and don't want to forget this.
