Not to Inundate You With Jane, But: Thoughts of the Sleep Deprived

It was cute at first, the cuddling. Flattering and maddening that I am the only one that can soothe Jane. Jane is teething. This is Jane. See Jane teethe. Hear Jane fuss. Hear Jane fuss in the night unless Mother rocks her. See Jane soothe. See Mother's dark circles.

I sit in the rocker, Will snoring and sweating in his own enormous bed like a small king. The night is still, so quiet, always as if we are the only people on earth, we three. I rock her. I think until I die I will remember the specific creaking of our rocker. I am not fully awake. My mind volleys between ideas for short stories and wondering why my left eye won't stay open. I snooze. See Mother snooze. See her mouth gape open as she starts to fall asleep and think she is in her own bed.

I open my right eye (the left one still not cooperating) and look down, sure that Jane's stone stillness indicates sleep, finally. But I see the deep pools of eyes, startlingly large in the dark, staring at me, as if her entire essence has drained into her pupils. I start to rise to the crib and her fingers grasp at my collar. Stay, Jane says. See Jane panic. Hear Jane plea. I try to keep in mind: I will one day wish back the sleepless nights, rocking my baby. See Mother stay.