This won't be forever

When it's midnight and then 3am and then 4:30am and then 5:47am, and you are crying out, I try to remember this won't be forever. One day you will sleep. And I will too.

When you open the drawer for the 10th time in 30 seconds, and you laugh as I tell you "no," I try to remember this won't be forever. One day you won't find drawer-contents so interesting. And I won't either.

When I find a new way to make you laugh, by playing hot potato with a rattle, I try to remember this won't be forever. One day you will find me insufferable. And I may too.

When you relax into my arms, belly full and eyes heavy, I try to remember this won't be forever. One day you won't need me to rock you to sleep. And I will miss it.

This. Today. It won't be forever. And that, my son, it the very definition of bittersweet.