She falls asleep on my chest: growly little snores escape her body, the first two fingers of her right hand take their preferred place in her mouth, increasingly long pale legs seemingly stretch off to the horizon, fine red hair tickles my neck. A cool breeze and soft afternoon light spill through the window behind the couch we rest on. Her sister is away at a campout and her brother is himself asleep, so we have some rare quiet time in our apartment and she sleeps soundly.
It’s not often I get these times anymore — she’s six and her sister is eight, and naptimes with Daddy happen rarely. My monkeybrain fights me: I feel as if I should get up and do some work or check my email or do any of dozens of other small tasks I use to distract my restless mind.
But I ignore that buzzing and I stay right there on that couch, the weight of this amazing, beautiful, fiercely intelligent (and just as fiercely stubborn) six-year-old on my chest, and I try to remember this moment, for I never have any idea how many more of these moments I’ll get the opportunity to savor.