I peered through the dark to the beloved bunny seat-come-bed and willed myself to check her pulse.
Clara, warm with sleep, grunted in her baby dreamland as I held two fingers to her chubby neck rolls. Heartbeat established, I laid back in bed and worried myself to sleep.
Then 6:00 a.m. arrived and SHE STILL HADN'T EATEN AND MY BABY IS PROBABLY DYING AND SAM ARE YOU LISTENING??
"Just wake her up then, babe." His eyes weren't even open.
"Yeah, but we don't do that."
The Horney house has a strict neverevereverwakeasleepingbabyfortheloveofallthatisgoodandholy rule. We feed on demand and let the kid do her thing, but now my crazy mom noggin was whispering scary 'she'll never eat again' messages into my head and I was in turn relaying these certainties to my husband via weepy early morning whispers.
"Ok. I'm doing it."
I rolled over, pulled her out of the bunny's soft ergonomic arms, and fed her.
She ate for about 90 disinterested seconds and passed back out. As did Sam. (Passed out, not ate. You weirdos). I tucked our baby into bed with us and stared at the rise and fall of her chest with each breath, simultaneously watching a short film in my mind entitled, "You're a bad mom and your baby isn't ok."
So as I found myself getting ready for church a short (SHORT) time later, and this was the scene behind me,
I went ahead and took a few tired minutes to be jealous of Sam.
1) For being a normal person and 2) For getting unadulterated-by-irrational-fear snuggle time.
Worry. Wastes. Time. (Matthew 6:27, right. I knew that.)
Snuggle time in particular.