The Night Watchman

I recently read The Book of Delights by Ross Gay. I wrote my own delight essayette afterwards.

It’s Sunday night, and I’ve piled the blankets over me, turned off the light, and opened my reading (total delight). I can hear the baby’s sweet melodic breaths as he settles into sleep. Our house is quiet, as if everyone and everything inside of it just took a huge exhale after the days activity. I have always loved this time of day, knowing that there is nothing affirmatively required of me till dawn. I feel as though I’m wearing a cloak that makes me invisible, unencumbered and free. In the middle of the day, I daydream about how I will spend these few precious moments- always thinking I can draw it out as long as possible

I drifted off to sleep more quickly than I intended. My eyelids had what felt like sandbags sitting on them, pulling them closed. My bliss didn’t last long before the baby was awake, crying. Having been feverish for the last few hours, his temperature continued to climb. His head, his neck, his belly, his hands, all hot to the touch. I held him in my arms, using a soft voice to soothe him. But inside, I too wanted to be soothed. Add this to the growing list of ways I was unprepared to be a parent. As if the universe heard the desperation in my heart for my baby, I heard an owl’s song faintly (delight). Now my ears were attuned and I waited and listened. The owl’s song once more. The tightness in my chest relaxed, I sunk even further into my bed. I knew my baby would be okay now. I knew I too would be okay. I took another slow breath in, my chest like a metronome for the baby. Sitting with him is enough. I’m content to hold him while he sleeps for the rest of the night, watching him as the owl keeps watch over us.