Friday, September 21, 2012
B hasn't napped in the morning for days, but he is stumbling around the living room like an amateur drunk so I scoop him up and carry him to his bedroom.
He nurses and then valiantly fights sleep even though he is exhausted.
I sing and rock and wait for him to drift off.
I close my eyes, tip my head back and silently repeat this mantra, "be patient, this is the most important thing you have to do today."
When I start to nod off I lift my head to check on B. He is asleep, finally. On his back in my lap: arms akimbo, legs splayed, head to one side.
Even now, a year on, he looks like his sister in profile.
My breath catches as I look at him.
How is that possible?
When she lived less than a day and he has logged enough miles to make a year, how can he look like her?