Moms create various ways of staying awake when they are bone weary and the baby is most certainly not.
My early morning hours are most recently filled with warming bottles, stoking the fire and trying not to trip over the scattering of wooden train track pieces in the dining room in the pre-dawn darkness. She is almost sleeping through the night now at a little over three months, which means she takes her last bottle at around 10pm and is not ready for another 6 ounces until the 4:30am hour. Or what I like to call
0:dark 30. Staying awake while watching her guzzle formula require a little creative thinking on my part, not wanting to just turn on the tv for some crazy infomercial. So I sing a few lines from David Bowies' Golden Years.
"Don't let me hear you say life's taking you nowhere, angel..." with the "angel" drawn out and high pitched. She loves that part.
This morning is no exception and here I sit on the garage sale couch in front of a toasty wood stove fire, debating on the issue of sleep. It is that crucial time of indecision where I wrestle with the idea of going back to bed. The little lady has been fed and changed and has fallen back into sleep, giving me that one last little closed lip smile before she is totally out. And this is where my daily dilemma begins. Do I slip back into bed and close my eyes knowing that my sleep will last only close to another hour before the little man rises wanting breakfast and Curious George? This hour is precious, but the issue of yet another rude awakening is enough to make me want to stay awake to avoid it.
"Look at that sky, life's begun, Nights are warm and the days are young"
My decision on most mornings to stay awake is one that I try to fill with something both productive and promising, like making a grocery list or scratching behind the ears of one or more cats looking for attention. Staying awake now feels almost like I have won a small victory in the war on the passage of time. I have stolen back another hour of simply living.
It is the hour before, the 4:30 am hour, that I must have allies in battle. A cavalry riding in to bolster the front lines. Here I turn on the Kindle and to Jenna Woginrich.
"Last night they loved you, opening doors and pulling some strings, angel..."
If a three month old and a 34 year old can have the same favorite author, then it is Ms. Woginrich. After the bottle and the inevitable spitting up, and after the diaper and clothing change, I read the latest Cold Antler Farm blog post out loud to the little girl.
Twice a day they get fresh water and feed—and they seem to need fresh bedding every other—but that is the extent of the work. I don't recommend raising meat birds when it is 10 degrees outside but for this farm they are growing fine.
My future gardener extraordinaire smirks and smiles while hearing about raising meat birds and the dangers of hauling full water buckets over the slick icy ground. She lets out a happy cry and drools a little when I go on about Antlerstock, Battenkill Books and wool workshops. And her eyes light right up when I stumble on anything garden-related. Of course, i am reading this in my best sing-song, overly sweet Mommy voice which is entertaining in and of itself to a three month old. When I finish reading a post she looks at me and in the light of the Kindle her face shows an eagerness for more. A happy, blissful gummy smile and I start the next installment of Birchthron until she shows the signs of sleepiness creeping back in.
"I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years, Nothings gonna touch you in these golden years...
Golden years, golden years whop whop whop..."