[[inspired by this blog post from my dear IRL mommy blogger friend Reanna]]

It’s 3:30 a.m. and I’m up again. Up again feeding the little guy. FW still doesn’t sleep through the night (who are all these parents who say their kids slept through the night starting at 2 months?!) and I’m in his room again for a feeding.

It’s 3:32 a.m. and I’m half asleep. I’m still holding onto FW so tight as he eats, afraid that if I hold him too loosely he may just disappear into the darkness and I may wake up and this whole motherhood thing will have all been a crazy, amazing dream.

It’s 3:35 a.m. and I’m tired. So tired that I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the week ahead. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to turn on “work Melissa” and off “mom Melissa.”  I worry that if this keeps up, I’ll fail at both. Part of me worries that I already am.

It’s 3:39 a.m. and my eyes are bleary. It’s often at this time of night (or is it morning?) that I find myself tearing up, partially from exhaustion, but mostly because of how much I find myself loving FW. I wonder if it’s normal to love a 13 pound human so so so much?

It’s 3:42 a.m. and FW is asleep on my lap. His breathing is heavy and his eyes are closed, yet I haven’t gotten up to put him down. I know I should go to sleep (for another 1.25 hours until my alarm goes off for my workout … or another hour until he wants to eat again – whichever comes first) but can’t bring myself to carry him back to his crib. As much as these feedings tire me out, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want them to end. I’m savoring the moment, his breathing and his smell, knowing that in a few weeks months years, this will all be a memory.