It’s 5:24 am and it is unclear whether or not i have actually gotten you to sleep. You have a noises I don’t yet understand, but it’s a good bet that every grunt belongs to the effort of somehow wrestling your hands to your face.

Baby, you love your hands. You use them as shields, as clasps, as antennas, as feelers. You need them near your face, preferably above your face. I thought I was going to love your feet most, but Hudson, it’s your hands that define you. 

I’ve asked Alexa to turn off the lights, I’ve sat for an hour of this early morning feeding, gently rocking you and worrying about whether or not I should try to change your diaper one more time, and I’ve contemplated the hell you just put your father through only hours before as he tried to put you to sleep.

Tonight, you haven’t been an easy baby. In fact, it appears that I did not succeed, you are not sleeping.

But that’s ok, because as I lift you again from the crib, I cry a little because I’m scared that you’re fleeting, that you’re growing, or that, God forbid, I’ll lose you. I’m grateful for your fusses because it means that I have just another moment to collect you. 

To collect the way my lips can feel your skin through your hair as I kiss the top of your head.

To collect the sound of your persistent latch.

To collect the little whistle at the back of your throat that informs your cries.

To collect your sideburns and the way you twitch when startled.

To collect each google search about how to keep you alive.

Baby, I collect each one of your hiccups.

I collect every ache and pain that led to you.

I collect this moment of you.

  1. May 19, 2018

    Beautiful ❤️