It was time for her to go to bed, and she was tired, making little grumpy sounds while covering her eyes with one hand (and using the other as a pacifier). But, just as she was about to drift off to baby dreamland, she would wake herself up.
Repeat.
Repeat.
It had been a couple weeks since she needed me to help her fall asleep, but now it was time for Pa to make himself useful (early on, we figured out that being held by Ma was not especially effective in helping her fall asleep when she was tired but fighting it - given the proximity to all that yummy milk...).
I remember those first few weeks, just the two us alone in the room, cradling her in my arms and holding her head close to my chest, hoping the sound of my heartbeat would somehow comfort her to sleep, singing three-little-birds on repeat in case the sound-of-heartbeat thing didn't work. baby don't worry, about a thing, cause every little thing is gonna be alright. Repeat. Repeat.
Sometimes, it took 10 minutes, sometimes it took an hour and 10 minutes, but every time she would fall asleep in my arms, I would feel a sense of accomplishment that I had never experienced before.
As I held her in my arms tonight, listening to her whimpers grow quieter, feeling her bury her head into my chest, I felt at peace, fulfilled, complete.
And, I realized that I needed this as much as she did.
As that thought started to sink in, it dawned on me that someday soon, maybe in a week, or a month, or a year, she wouldn't need me to help her fall asleep anymore.
Panic.
23 weeks in!
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