I woke up and it was tomorrow.
The rain splattered my windows. The shades, old and twisted rollers, were pulled down and hiding the funk outside. National Weather Service forecasts a 100 percent chance for precipitation. I wonder why they call that a chance.
Jonah grunts from his bassinet tied to the side of my queen-sized bed. The sound is bigger than him by at least two pounds and a handful of ounces. I like his chubby cheeks, his button nose. His smell, sweet and sour and as beautiful as smell can be.
In 39 hours I'll proclaim his first month of life.
Did I miss a day or two or ten? I thought just yesterday I laid his head in the crook of neck to sleep on the folding couch of our hospital's delivery room.
I'm applying scotch tape to my eyelids this very moment. I'll use three pieces just to make sure I don't blink and miss something, like the quiver of his lip when he's grumpy. Like the grey, probing eyes following shadows on the wall. Like the fountain of pee that strikes with precision at nearly every diaper change. Like the gentle cooing so closely resembling a squeaking toy.
Like the baby tears puddling on his rosy cheeks because he wants his mommy so bad.
I don't sleep as well anymore at night. Not because Jonah won't let me. I'm afraid I'll miss something. I might doze off, and when I wake up, it might just be tomorrow.
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