Care To Dance?
I woke before the alarm. Something was stirring... and it wasn't a mouse.
I could hear Hannah's pulseox beeping from our bedroom. I walked down the hallway and popped my head into Hannh's room. There she was, on her stomach, propped up on her arms, smiling at me.
Ready for the Daddy shift.
"When did she go to bed?" I asked.
"Nine," Janette said. "Maybe ten?"
Time for Daddy math. Four-and-a-half hours of sleep. Yep, she'd be up for a while.
So here we are at 4am. My singing voice, my consoling voice, my encourage-you-to-go-to-sleep voice has long worn out. I've used the electronic babysitter as my singing replacement for the last hour-and-a-half.
Now I'm preparing to escalate. I'm about to switch to music only (no video), and it's going to be soothing classical music. Hold on while I switch over....
Now listening to XM classics. Hannah is decidedly avoiding the issue, looking around her bed, back at me. Maybe if I feign disinterest, she seems to say, he'll give up and put on another video.
This is our dance. Cue the crying. It's time to work through our process. Toss pacifiers. Give Dad hugs when he picks them up for us. Cry when he walks away. Smile when he returns. Sign correctly (not an everytime thing) for songs. Daddy gives in and sings one song. More hugs. Daddy walks away. More crying.
We certainly both know the steps. Hannah is eyeing me from her bed now, calling me over with brief shouts through her trach.
Hannah, care to dance?
-- Dad
