As I write this, you’re snoozing away upstairs. I know, because I just crept up the stairs and peeked at you. You looked so cute in your diaper and t-shirt, your arms and legs splayed out in the pack ‘n’ play. (Sorry about the whole pack ‘n’ play thing, by the way. I promise Daddy will put your crib together tomorrow.)
I’m really tired right now, because you refused to go to sleep for an hour and a half after I got you ready for bed. We did our normal thing: kissing Daddy goodnight, changing your diaper, singing songs on the bed (“Wheels on the Bus” is your favorite – you love the way I move your legs around with the “swish swish swish” of the wipers, and I love the way it makes you giggle.), a great big ol’ feed and a kiss on the forehead. It usually works, but not tonight. Tonight, you just weren’t having it.
I don’t blame you. We’ve only been back from America for a week, and your poor little body probably thinks it’s 3 in the afternoon.
I got frustrated. I nearly cried.
But I want you to know I’m not mad at you. I know it’s not your fault. You’re the best little boy a mama could ever ask for, even if it takes you an hour and a half to go to sleep. Even if it takes you three hours. Even if it takes you three days.