It’s 2:17AM and I’m hustling the seven feet from my bedroom to my son’s. His loud cries for MOMMY cut through the wall and the closed doors and even the ear plugs I wear to dim the nighttime city noises. Of course they do — I’m his mother.
By 2:18AM he’s in my arms, tiny fingers already twisting themselves in my hair, hot little breaths of “mommymommymommy” in my ear. I rock him and his crying gradually slows. I put him down in his crib, give him his Bunnydog, a ratty stuffed animal we aren’t sure is a rabbit or a dog, and slowly recede from the room. As I slip into the hallway, his little voice calls me back.
“Daddy?” he asks.