Baby Boy climbs out of his crib and comes sneaking into my room every morning. In the wee small hours, in virtual dark, he navigates his way around various packing materials, down the cold hallway, past the laundry room and into the master bedroom. All while half asleep. My morning snuggler arrives as early as 6 AM some days, scooching under the covers and inadvertently waking me by trying to fit his shaggy head onto my pillow. I know I will probably regret letting him do this for 3 weeks, but I can't help it. I love the gentle surprise of my baby boy's kiss on my cheek, his sleep-slurred little voice whispering "Night night, Mama", pulling my arm over him as he curls himself into a soft ball and nestles onto my pillow's corner. I smile softly, not quite awake myself, watching as he almost instantly falls back asleep. I close my eyes and listen to his little snores, hoping for a bit more sleep before my alarm rings. Those are the good mornings. The mornings rosy colored memories are made of. In reality, most mornings, Baby Boy arrives wide awake and (non too gently) demanding food or drink. "Mama! Ache up, Mama! Peas ache up, Mama! I eat! I hunry. Peas!". Needless to say, I'm not too fond of growth spurts right now, but I'll take all the slow snuggly mornings I can get.
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