My Husband Slept In on Mother's Day

My husband slept in on Mother's Day.

At 6:30 in the morning, when baby girl woke up and started rolling around, babbling, watching her hands open and close in the air above her, making the bub-bub-bub noise with her lips, he slept and I woke up and watched her on the monitor.

I got up, pulling my short hair back into a nubby little pony tail so that it's out of reach of her tiny pulling hands. When I opened the door to her room, she startled and pushed up to all fours so that she could see who was coming to get her. Her morning smile, her mom smile, broke across her face, and her little butt rocked back and forth with excitement. She dropped down to her chest so that she could hold her arms out to be picked up, making her look like a little baby supergirl. I scooped her up, and she snuggled her head into my shoulder, smiling, before sitting back up to look for "k-k"--the kitty. Our morning ritual. And then an unexpected gift--a sloppy, open-mouthed, good-morning kiss.

While my husband slept, I changed her diaper, singing and dancing and making funny faces in an attempt to keep her entertained enough to forget that she hates getting her diaper changed right now. Then we settled into our chair and I nursed her, wincing from each time she tried to pinch my freckle off my chest, trying to get her instead to grab my nose or my teeth or my lips. Then we settled into the living room and played peak-a-boo and pat-a-cake. We chased the cats around the house. We built and knocked down towers. We made little animals pop up and then quickly closed them all again.

I fed her breakfast--oatmeal and blueberries. It was a delightful mess. She reached into her mouth after each bite, trying to feel the tiny gritty pieces that sat on her tongue. She rubbed her blueberry fingers all over her face, all over her tray. She tried to eat the bottom of her sippy cup. She tried to reach the cats as they ran by.

She sat on the kitchen floor, waving a spatula and using it to beat on plastic bowls, while I made batch after batch of food for her--sweet potato and squash; squash and zucchini; pear, apple, and banana. I cooked and cleaned and listened to her cackle every time her mechanical ball spun and spoke on its own.

Then we moved to the jumper and she jumped and turned the pages of her book and laughed while she watched me jump in front of her. More peak-a-boo. More chasing the cats. More knocking down of towers.

While my husband slept, I held her. We sang songs. We read books. I held her and rocked her while her tiny little hands, free from their blueberry stains, reached up and grabbed my nose. We stared into each other's eyes, each seeing the same color looking back. The long, slow blinks. The snuggle into the crook of my elbow.

My husband slept in on Mother's Day. And when he woke up, somewhere around oatmeal with blueberries, I sent him back to bed. For those three hours, the first three hours of my second first Mother's Day, I had my daughter to myself. Uninterrupted. Unshared.

Unsurpassed.