She's sleeping ...

and I'm rubbing my eyes to keep them open long enough to write a few sentences. Each time I start to write, there's something more important to do: Sit and look at her, fold her miniature pants, boil chicken bones. Before she was born, I remember wondering how women can give up a career or a hobby or a passion in order to tend to their children. What it is: Amnesia. I just don't care about those things as much anymore.

I want my free time and then the free time comes and I want my time with her. I devour our moments. I'm in them completely. Sometimes I'll be lying next to her while she sleeps and I'll remember past events like they're from a past life. Hazy and smokey and unclear of what they meant or why they mattered. I think of one-liners to sum up difficult relationships, and place them in tiny packages with elaborate bows. Expensive, irregularly shaped boxes and hand-sewn bows.

My ears are ringing with the sounds she's made today, none of them English but all of them language. We live in a world where repetition matters, where routines are beautiful and I remember again the importance of ritual. I make up songs and think I'm such a gifted songwriter. I think, "I should record these songs and send them to all of my friends." Love songs.

And I'm certain that this makes me a better person.