the middle of the night

I often get up in the middle of the night. If there's another word for "often" out there that means "10 times more than often," I'd love to learn it. I sleep in a beautiful, pillow-top king-sized bed next to my dear, sweet husband. Usually at some point after midnight, I get a visitor. A visitor from a very tiny, brown-haired, brown-eyed dumpling of a thing, squealing "Moooommmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyy . . . " at the edge of my bed, with her little green beanie baby tucked under her arm. His name is Grant, by the way - after her handsome cousin in Denver who she got to spend some time with, holding and cuddling, and obviously hasn't forgotten about.

This happens almost every night. Shortly after Ava crawls into our bed, she asks for a drink. Milk, if you will. Last night, though, she simply snuggled up and went to sleep. Just before she dozes off, she usually murmurs "my mommy . . . " and I whisper back to her "my Ava . . . " and she scoots in even closer. I often joke that she'd get back inside my tummy if I'd let her. I love the smell of her hair in the middle of the night. It's clean, but sweaty and sweet. Something only a mother will love, I suppose. You all know what I mean. I watched her snoring peacefully, then eased myself out of bed to get myself a tall glass of water. I made my way to the kitchen, and as I was reaching for a glass, another glass lost its balance and came crashing down. Great. A broken glass in the middle of the night. This isn't just a simple interruption of my sleep. This means the lights go on full power, the broom is awakened, and I get to worry for the next three days whether these miniscule pieces of glass will make their way into my daughters' fingers and toes.

Carson heard and came out, turning each light on as he got closer and closer to me. Don't move, he said. You're bleeding. I looked down. I saw nothing. This is because, well, I can see nothing, without the help of my dear friends at Acuvue. Your foot, he said. Go get a band-aid. Care Bears or plain, I wondered to myself.

After sweeping up the mess, Carson crawled under the covers. How's your foot?

It hurts. It just doesn't feel right. The cut is small, but it feels like there's something in there. The funny thing is, after he shooed me away, I stood in the bathroom reaching for the band-aid (I chose Care Bears) and felt terribly nauseous, so I took a seat on the toilet and put my head between my legs. I knew my foot was bleeding, but puh-leeze. I'm stronger than that! I made my way to the bed, at least not wanting to fall.

It wasn't long before the covers were thrown back, the bathroom light lit. Carson carefully peeled away the band-aid, and scoped out the wound. I think by the time he was done I was fast asleep . . .

But it's all good. No glass in the foot. There was definitely some leftovers on the floor this morning we managed to sweep away before the girls stomped their chubby little feet all around.

I think this is what it's all about, though. Today, as I maneuver through the details and tasks of the day, I keep going back to the moment where the band-aid was peeled away, and I think I love my husband just a little bit more.