My body misses her.

I frequently sing You Are My Sunshine to Alice- it feels like a tribute to this unique time we're in together:

The other night dear, while I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
When I awoke dear, I was mistaken
So I bowed my head and I cried

I am functionally sleep deprived and gratefully so. I know there will come a time when I'm no longer awake at all hours, dizzy with lack of sleep, oblivious and yet hyper-aware of the hour, having lost count of how many times I've laid down, only to get back up again. The few times I've slept through the night in the last six months, my eyes have shot open in the morning, confused that Alice is not beside me, momentarily terrified that something is wrong.

Here is a reality of motherhood that I'm learning a bit more every day: My body misses her. When I am up at all hours, I long for her to sleep, but when she does, I catch myself staying awake to stare at her. Not too long ago she was a part of me. Now, I spend my days praying in each breath that she stay safe and warm and loved every moment I cannot be attending to those needs myself.

You'll never know dear, how much I love you

So, I hold her in the wee hours. I revel that her head fits perfectly on my shoulder, that this time is ours alone. I sigh, relieved, when I feel her grip on my arm loosen, hear her breathing slow and deepen. But, once I've laid her down to sleep, I remain awake awhile, ears pricked to hear her small stirring. She needs me.

Oh, but more truly, I need her. My body misses her.