Now comes the night

Recently I've been staying up very late. Luckily, the baby loves to snuggle and sleep in until eleven or twelve. I always tell myself to go to sleep and maybe I could get up and exercise or have my "me" time then but there is always something that has drew me to the night.
I like to be the one who watches over my family as they sleep and see the beauty and relief in their faces as they leave the day behind and dream about how to start the next one anew. I love to curl up next to them with my book or kindle and my tiny light. I like to take moments to kiss their faces, stroke a cheek, or pull up the covers over their shoulders. Or in Seth's case pull the covers back from his recent barrel roll which took all but the flat sheet to his side of the bed because for some reason, he can't gasp the concept of using the flat sheet for anything more than a leg winder or something to pull out of the bottom of the bed so it drives me crazy!
Isn't it funny when you reach that point of sleeping with a person that you know their sleeping style, like their REAL sleeping style? The one that only their Mom had seen or the siblings they shared a room with? I remember when Seth used to get dressed in the bathroom before bed and used to sleep so lightly it hardly counted as sleeping at all. Now he's out cold. I could lay a screaming baby on him and he wouldn't flinch.
Watching the baby's sleeping style change over the year has been interesting too, if not completely devastating and heartbreaking being her Mom. She has slowly slid off my chest and claimed a spot on my pillow. She likes to lean back far enough to feel her Daddy's breath on her neck but likes to wriggle her little toes under my stomach. Eventually both of their breathing finds a rhythm and I know they are out for the count.
In this space I love to read. Sleep escapes me. In this quiet, dotted with the inhale and exhale of the two people next to me and the occasion cat surveying its nocturnal landscape and finding their master readily available for a late night pet, and without the child (who they show such brave patience to) to get excited about their appearance and rip out handfuls of fur in their glee of petting. I get lost in my pages of heroes and heroines, of the past and they mystery. Its almost like sitting in a movie theater and not wanting the lights to ever come on, and the story is so engaging and you get wrapped up in it so deeply you actually worry about it ending. You start to read slower because you don't want to know what life is like without the characters you share the pages with.
Sometimes I get thoughts like this I long to write out but know if I pop open my netbook I'll find a dozen other things to do than write. So I let the thought flit away with promises to compose it in the morning, only to find I can no longer remember the inspiration behind the stream of conciseness. Plus I would be neglecting my friends in the books.
The weather is turning and Evelynn is venturing outdoors with such vim and vigor I haven't the heart to hold her back or slap gloves on her or stop her from licking the occasional pinecone. I can't wait to see what opening the windows and letting the night in does to my very late readings.
Love (gripping darkness and books),
Carrie
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