Good night. 9.5 months

In which I write in second person for a moment. 

Sometimes you come home from work. And the train was on time. And the rain held off until you stepped inside. And the baby is already in his high chair, grinning at you when he hears the door open. And you smoosh his cheeks with kisses and drop handfuls of avocado and chicken and sweet potato onto his tray while doing silly things to make him laugh. He gobbles the food, bottomless. Then you clean his face and hands and scoop him up and squeeze him for a second in the kitchen before we wiggles away to play.

And there are good leftovers for your own dinner. And the baby plays on the floor with his blocks and cups and babbles while you eat. And when it's time to do the dishes, he feigns a whine but then realizes he can scoot up to the oven and pull down the tea towels. He is so independent one moment, and then he isn't, and then he is.

You and Mike both take him up for a bath and he splashes around and sucks the bath water out of the washcloth. Throws the toys out of the tub, you retrieve them. Repeat. Mike makes it rain with the rinsing cup and you rub the baby's back, smooch Mike's head. The baby sees you together and smiles. There have been nights recently when we weren't all together because life is busy but this. This is where it's at. The baby rubs his eyes. Time to get out.

There is a lot of splashing in the lift from the tub and you hold his warm slippery body close to you in the towel. Mike cleans up while you dress the baby. Flips and wriggles and crawls on the bed, you wrangle the three kinds of lotion and a bare butt and a diaper and the jammies and it feels like Olympic-level exertion getting through this part. But then.

Then he is all yours. Clean and jammied, and Mike brushes his hair and kisses him good night in a little group hug. And the bottle is warm and you snuggle up on the chair, reading Baby Beluga and Goodnight Moon. He holds his own bottle, tipping it back. Rests his head on your chest and nuzzles in. You read and sing and kiss his head, tufts of hair still a little damp from the bath. And tell him you love him and wonder aloud how his day went. You have an inkling, texts from the sitter, but still. You wonder.

And after some babbles and pauses, the bottle is done. You stand up and, together, wave goodnight to the poster above his crib. The animals huddled in a cave, a drawing that watches over him. Polar bear. Squirrel. Bird. Then he sticks his fingers in his mouth, drops his head onto your shoulder and tucks his knees into your belly. Oh, this part. You thank God and the moon and anyone who might listen. Rock him for a few moments, feeling his weight on your chest because even though he's tired and you should set him down soon, there is this. This is not forever.