It gets me every time, the sleeping baby thing.
When Michael was a newborn, it was the best. I would creep into my bedroom and locate his ineptly swaddled body half breaking free, head turned to the left (always the left), quietly slumbering. The nightmare of the day, the endless shrieking and bad napping, the utter nerve jangling craziness, conclusively over. Done. It would be the magic window of 8pm to 11pm, the initial deep night sleep where I could be pretty certain nothing horrible would happen. Nothing but the odd (heart stopping) twitch or weird baby sleep noise. I would peek at him over the edge of the crib, taking note if he was in REM or deep and dreamless sleep, marveling at the Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde transformation. Oh you wonderful little silent baby. Are you the same baby as the one I almost threw on top of my bed in despair four hours ago, leaving you to scream alone for five minutes while I struggled to keep my own hysteria in check?
I still love it, now that Michael is almost 16 months old. No longer because the day sucked, but because… well, it is straight up adorable. Froggy style, or on his side with his arms and legs fully extended into a rigid C shape. Squishy baby sized pillows tucked under, around and top of him. A left thumb likely being sucked. Occasionally mismatching pajamas with cartoon socks courtesy of my mother (I don’t do cartoon socks). The only thing that stops me from stalking him in his bedroom more often is a notoriously squeaky door and my own creaky joints (the sound of knees or feet clicking resounds like firecrackers going off). But sometimes, I find an excuse to enter and then in the indirect glow of my mobile phone screen light, I just watch my son sleep. And it is the most wonderful thing in the world.