The Great Migration

Rob and I are once again sharing sleeping quarters with Olive. I got up this morning, rearranged the furniture in our already modest-sized bedroom to make room for the crib. Zoe's going to be arriving from Maine tomorrow afternoon and I'm trying to get the last-minute details completed before she gets here (still on my list: splice some wires for a blue paper lantern to hang above her loft that can serve as a reading light). I've got to say that I was less than elated about bringing Buggy back into our space at night; after having her in our room up until she was eleven and a half months old, we really relished having our own room back to ourselves when we moved to our current apartment. It is nice to not have to tiptoe about, worrying that every creak the floor makes might wake your sleeping darling. Last night (as I finish typing this the next day) that was not to be, however. Rob had gone in before me to read in bed and the light didn't rouse or normally light sleeper. I sat on the edge of our bed and gazed at her perfect face as she slept, truly appreciating the opportunity to have her so close again at night. I did, however, notice that the mulberry-filled contents of her diaper had seeped out onto her onesie, causing me to interrupt what might have been a night without incident. If I can help it, I won't have her sitting in a dirty diaper, especially all night. I got her up to change her, but getting hero to go back to sleep was a hassle; even after her crying subsided she continued to kick her mattress for an impressive length of time, then woke me at 5:47. I had half a mind to stay up and be thankful for the early hour which would allow me to get more work done on the final batch of book illustrations I need to have complete by Friday, but instead I put her back in her crib and let all of us catch a few more hours of sleep.