In this house, we have a morning ritual.

The first thing I hear every morning is this little nugget’s voice over the baby monitor, squawking happy morning greetings and calling out, “Ma-ma“. I roll out of the bed, my eyelids usually still heavy but my heart light and full. When I open the door to his room, I always find him standing in his crib, bouncing up and down like the feisty little guy he is, and he greets me with the biggest grin know to man. We nurse for awhile, and he plays with my hair and pokes me in the nose and I return the favor by eating his toes and sniffing his stinky feet until he’s giggling too hard to continue. And then he wraps his arms around my neck and I hold him close while he peeks over my shoulder out the window and squeaks with excitement at the morning sunlight and the tree branches and the new day outside. When I whisk him off to Mama & Dada’s room, we climb into the big bed and he can’t wait to pet each of his puppies (energetically, might I add). He’s always pleasantly surprised on the weekends when he finds Dada still snoring beneath the covers, and he promptly puts a stop to any sleeping that might be happening with a few quick slaps to Dada’s head. He crawls all over us and pulls back our covers and chats up a storm. And if we’re extra, extra lucky, we might get a few quick moments of snuggle time before our wild child is too busy to be contained by a bed any longer.

Yesterday was a long Monday. There were too few naps, too many tantrums and one busted lip, thanks to an unfortunate run-in with a dining room chair a certain someone decided to push around the kitchen. I was ready for bedtime (mine and his) like I hadn’t seen my pillow in weeks. But no matter how long the days stretch or how short the hours of sleep between nighttime wakings may seem, I’m always ready for his wake-up call – this sweet season of our life will be too short, I’m sure, but I hope I’ll remember my mornings with him forever.

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