My Sleeping Baby

His face is transformed from mischievous cutie to that of an angel.  His cheeks are soft pillows for his long, blonde eyelashes to rest on.  His even breaths in and out are rhythmic.  His hands are pliable in their relaxation; fingers gently curled.  His warmth seeps through his sleeper into my skin.  There is tranquility in holding my sleeping baby. 

From the moment I hear him awake in his crib until I finally place him there again at night, his motion is constant.  He is 15 months of energy and life and love and kisses.  He has four big brothers to keep up with.  He has so much world to explore.  He has conquered the climbing-of-the-chair, so he stands on them triumphantly.  He touches EVERYTHING his little arms can stretch to grab; if he can't reach it, he simply climbs up to get it.  He thinks what he does is ever-so-funny, so he does it again, and again.  He sits in the middle of anything his brothers are doing; literally in the middle.  He empties the recycling bin onto the floor repeatedly.  He helps.  Oh my, but he loves to help.

And then finally, at the end of the day when he has tired from touching and climbing and laughing and doing, he lies still on my lap for a moment.  Sometimes he is still long enough to fall asleep.  In that moment I don't care that the dishwasher still has to be filled and put on, or that the floor still needs to be swept, or that lunches still have to be finished, or that a load of folded laundry still needs to be put away.  I just sit.  I watch him sleep.  I absorb his baby warmth.  And every challenge of the day is forgotten because I am holding my sleeping baby.  I am content.