Loaf is nestled in the bed next to me breathing deeply.
For anyone keeping track, she is still not sleeping in her own bed.
This is just as much our fault as hers. We are too tired, some may even say lazy, to change the situation, so we live with it.
In the words of a parenting expert whose workshop I attended last fall, “Why make a bad situation worse?”
I close my eyes and try to grab just a few more minutes of sleep, but I already know it is a lost cause. My mind is racing with to-dos and plans. Still, I lie there. Enjoying the dark and the silence broken only by my sleeping daughter’s rhythmic breathing.
Minutes pass and Loaf begins to stir. She stretches and sighs. She turns over, then over again. She places her hand on my forearm and I turn toward her, placing my hand over hers.
I slowly open my eyes. We are face-to-face, inches apart. She is looking directly at me. I lift my hand in the air and she places hers against mine – palm to palm.
Bits of daylight are just beginning to stream through cracks in the curtains giving the room only the slightest hint of definition. Our hands look like silhouettes – black cut outs from a preschool art class – pressed against each other.
I fold my fingers on top of hers, then straighten them again. She moves her hand slightly so our fingers are staggered, then curls them around my hand, before returning to the flat palm-on-palm position.
We don’t speak.
We don’t even look at each other.
But we are undoubtedly, totally, connected.