I procrastinate. I can tell you this for sure because this morning I woke up to multiple baskets of laundry in nearly every room of the house. I don't know how it got quite so bad, and I do have a vague recollection of me telling Justin I would get to it "today," but the buck had to stop on the fifth basket.
As these things go, one thing led to another. The laundry kept coming, I kept finding more and more of it all over. Tiny pink socks under the ottoman; a purple striped onesie next to the bathtub that is either permanently stained or filthy dirty and I honestly can't tell which; the shell to a bullet proof vest on the basement floor; my favorite jeans, balled up in the bedroom chair. So I started to tidy up, fluttering from room to room wondering how much I could get done before Quinlan wakes and undoes it all.
It wasn't long. And she woke up on the wrong side of the crib. Pumpkinhead has had a runny nose for a few days and she woke up with a pouty lip and tears running down her cheeks. I cleaned her up and dressed her, fixed a bowl of brown sugar oatmeal (because I couldn't get the lid off the maple syrup) and prayed pleasantries over her sour puss self. I tried to get back to the cleaning (as I was now on a binge, you see) but she wasn't having it. Have you ever tried to vacuum out the corners with a 22-pounder on your hip? You can break a decent sweat that way.
And after a day of crying and head bumps and feeling her feelings, my Quinlan went to bed at 8, an hour and a half earlier than she usually does. I put her in the yellow summer pajamas my mother bought for her, the ones with the lace straps and tiny flowers flecked across the pants. She didn't even want a little warmed milk. She woke up crying thirty minutes later, and I gave her a few minutes to settle herself, and when she didn't, I went in to check her. She sat in her crib with the blue skylight streaking in through her window, her pudge hands folded in her lap, staring at her palms while she cried. It was the saddest thing I've ever seen.
The poor dearie was just hysterical, screaming red, hot tears rolling down her plump cheeks, clapping her hands together like she does for Patty Cake, but also when she's upset. We sat there for a moment or two when she finally looked at me with her teeny eyelashes stuck together, stuck her thumb into her mouth, and flopped her mop head on my chest. I could feel my heart swell. I snuggled her in as close as I could, brushing her wispy hair away from her face, and sang her a remix of You Are My Sunshine/Just a Closer Walk With Thee. She stared at me with her very blue eyes, absentmindedly drumming the fingers of her free hand on my chest, and I am in love all over again.
She is snoring now, but I am still thinking about it. Mostly because tonight was one of those completely normal, completely wonderful nights where I get to be her mother and wipe her tears and thank God that He made her for Himself and His purpose. Every night, I tiptoe into her bedroom and make sure she's covered up (she tends to bundle them up under her so I can't move the blankets without waking her); I take an extra close look at her smooshed up lips and wish I could kiss them through the crib bars. I miss her and love her and smile thinking about the morning when we get to do it all over again.
It is so good.