We live miles from the nearest street light. But tonight there is a full moon and it is making our whole forest shimmer, dancing in silver rainbows. I can see the fall leaves clinging to the trees clearly through our windows. I have been at a work conference all day, learning about babies and attachment, breastfeeding and optimum brain development from a neuroscientist and a child psychiatrist, both experts in their field. My baby (can I still call her a baby even though she has turned two now?) is sick, with a head cold. The stuffy nose and throbbing head have her up, wide awake at midnight, as I am about to go to sleep myself.
I’ve missed my kiddos today, and my mind has been expanded at my conference. I’m marveling at her brain, so vital, so powerful and yet so fragile and at the mercy of the adults that surround her, this little person I love beyond words. I tell my husband I’ll stay up with her.
(Who knows how many more chances I will have to be up at night with a baby. These are moments I don’t want to miss out on.)
I put on both our house coats and wrap us in a warm quilt and we head out into the wonder of the backyard. We swing together on our tree swing, her snuggled into me. We are out there for hours, talking about the moon and the stars and the leaves and how cozy we are. I’m singing Hello Night, and then she asks for twinkle, twinkle (her favourite) and we sing it together.
We are connected under the vastness of the universe.
(I’m trying to practice being more present this year. Because when I am it is glorious.)