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Cries pierce my melatonin heavy sleep. I don’t lift my head or open my eyes. I can’t. I physically can’t. I’ve only been sleeping for an hour or two. My eyes feel like weights. My body feels like a rock pressed into the foam mattress.

I’ll just lay here a few minutes.

The cries continue.

I should get up.

I tell my body what I want it to do but I’m not sure if it will obey.

Turn.

It turns.

Open your eyes.

My eyes lift open.

And through the darkness, I see something unexpected, but also not unexpected at all.

My husband Mason’s side of the bed, is empty.

I rotate the opposite way and press the button on the baby monitor. The screen is so bright I have to squint. My son is not in his bed. His screams intensify.

My heart aches, but not in fear. Mason hasn’t left me. The bed is not empty because he doesn’t care. It’s empty because he has risen and gone to our son before I could force myself out of bed. He knows he might not be welcomed, but he went anyway. He wants me to sleep. He loves E and me enough to get out of bed.

A few nights later, I fall back into bed after nursing our son. I check the monitor. He pushes to a sitting position and cries.

“Can you try, hon?” I say, groggily.

Mason pries himself out of bed. He lies E back down but E pushes against the mattress and sits up. Mason tries again but E does the same thing. Finally, Mason comes back to bed.

We wait.

E screams.

I watch the monitor as E looks at the door and then tries to lay down.

“I think he’s ready,” I say.

Mason drags himself out of bed again. He helps E lay down as E cries his displeasure. He’s not screaming. He’s fussing. He wants help getting back to sleep. Mason props himself against the crib and pats E’s back. He rests his head on his arm and rubs and pats while E surrenders his cries. Mason takes his arm away. E cries. Mason returns his hand to his back. E quiets. Mason stays there, tired, until E falls asleep. He crawls back in bed beside me. He doesn’t know how grateful I am. I’m too tired to tell him.

I’m too tired to tell him how grateful I am that he does the dishes every night after dinner.

I’m too tired to tell him how thankful I am that he works so I can be a stay-at-home mom.

I’m too tired to tell him that I love how he plays with our son for thirty minutes every night so I can take a shower.

I’m too tired to tell him that I see how he takes care of us. How he takes out the trash and makes sure our physical and emotional needs are met, sometimes at the sake of his own.

I’m too tired to tell him that I still see him, the guy he was before he became a father, the guy I fell in love with. The guy who held my hand for the first time in a dark movie theater. The guy who brought me on a private plane ride before we were dating and confused my teenage-girl heart. The guy who pitched a tent in my parent’s front yard so he wouldn’t have to drive home to sleep. The guy who has taken me on adventure after adventure. I’m too tired to tell him that I love seeing the guy he used to be be a father now. I love seeing the boy in him come out when he plays with our son.

I’m too tired to thank him for making me laugh at the funny names he calls the dog, the videos he sees on social media, or all the silly things he says just to see my reaction.

I’m too tired to tell him that I know each act of care is his way of saying, “I love you.” We’re both learning how to be both parent and lover. Father and husband. Wife and mother.

So, I go back to sleep.

But the next morning I let the dog out. I care for our son. I vacuum dog hair up–again. I go grocery shopping. I make dinner. I do things that I hope show him how thankful I am for him and how much I love him back.

And yes, I tell him, “Thank you,” too. With my words and with my actions.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

*This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Love Looks Like”. *

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