Fuzzy

I can tell you are standing in your crib before I even open my eyes. The cry, clear and unobstructed, is more of a whimper. And it’s in that moment that it begins. “What should I do?” I wonder.

Should I wait? Let you fuss a bit? Should I lay you back down? Should I rock you back to sleep? Should I feed you? And the “shoulds” begin to cascade down all before I’ve even peeled open one eye ball. Once I do, I can only make out the fuzzy outline of your pale face against the dark crib wood.

I’ve been known to tell my therapy clients that, in my book, “should” is a four letter word. Whether directed inward or outward, it only leads to blame and frustration. Unclear expectations, fuzzy outlines against a backdrop of self-doubt.

Ultimately I do get up. I pick you up and try a few things to lull you back to sleep. After a time, I realize that the day has begun and I grab my glasses. My eyes may now see the distance clearly - I can make out your clear blue eyes, your fuzzy blonde hair, your gummy smile -  but my mind is still fuzzy with shoulds.

I decide to feed you in the stillness of that space between night and morning. A space you and I have come to know quite well; it is an unwelcome sacredness. I watch as your eyes grow heavy and I take over the bottle-holding duties. I’ve managed to find a half-laying down position that seems entirely comfortable to you and good enough for me.

So I take off my glasses, set them down on the pillow. I can’t see much without them. The world is fuzzy. The only thing that is clear now is you.