Odd serenity

I'm laying face up in bed, a dull headache (lack of sleep?) pulses at my temples. I throw my arm across half my face covering my right eye. I hear your quick, shallow breathing - rhythmic and comforting; the humidifier gurgles. A (un)expected police siren blares on the street below us. The noises of the city do not disturb the odd serenity of our bedroom.

I debate whether to roll myself out of bed. Do I dare move a muscle and risk disturbing you? It's not that I don't want to see you first thing in the morning; it's that I haven't had a morning where I've waken up on my own in months. It's that to creep out of bed, across the room, and out the door would mean risking disturbing the odd serenity in your crib.

After a few minutes I decide to lightly pad, feet in fluffy white slippers, out the door. I have no idea when you'll wake, what today will bring. And so the these first few moments, before you break open the day, are quiet and ripe with anticipation and oddly serene.