Long lashes laying gently on cherubic cheeks.  That little rosebud mouth, lips occasionally twitching in memory of a bottle as I blot the remnants of a milk chin with an old diaper.  Your tiny hand splayed open, fingers finally still in their continual quest to feel everything around you, your arm draped across my chest.  Your congested little nose gives you the tiniest snore, a faint echo of your father’s rumble down the hall.

It’s almost 2:30 in the morning on a (now) Thursday morning.  I have to be at work in 6 hours.  But just let me rock you a little longer before I ease up out of the recliner with practiced silent effort and gently lay you back in your crib.  Just one more kiss on your warm little forehead, just between your eyebrows (when did they finally grow in, I wonder?)  I miss full, uninterrupted nights of sleep.  But I know that eventually I won’t be awakened by a cry in the middle of every night – and I think I shall miss our time here my son, alone in the dark.