It's not everyday we bring home a passed out baby from daycare. Typically, from pick-up to bedtime, we've got about an hour and a half fire drill: play, eat, bathe, crash. Today, the tiny time bomb fell asleep a block from daycare. Perhaps he'll sleep long enough to go from carseat to crib, in which case I will miss his tiny snuggles yet rejoice in the freedom to drink my wine and pee in peace (most likely not at the same time, but no promises).
Maybe it's just me, in which case I'm a horrible person, but I imagine every working parent has this feeling. The conflict of needing a break after work, yet realizing you only see your child three hours a day, so "wake the f*** up!"
Matt and I start cooking in silence, hoping to at least get dinner made while the baby snores.
I accidentally slam the cupboard door, and Matt shoots me a look that says, "would you enjoy being a single parent?"
Matt gets the paci back in before Coop wakes up, and we continue our silent cooking.
In a failed attempt to remove a fork from a drawer, I drop it with a clang. Coop squeaks awake. This must be how marriages ends. The silent night becomes routine hustle, and we all fall into our roles. I'm glad we get to see him smile, but a part of me sighs as the thought of a childless work night is put to bed.