Pearl-sized drops of rain pattered on the window early this morning as baby E stirred in bed, snuggled against the base of my neck.
The constant drum of the rain pulled me out of a dream about baby E. walking and talking in full sentences; clearly, his turning eight months old had played on my mind the day before.
I looked down at baby E., sighed a breathe of relief that it was only a dream. He was still little. He quickly repositioned and drifted back to sleep as just a tiny bit of daybreak wrestled to escape the gray rain clouds and then struggled to peak in through the blinds.
In that moment, as I lie in bed next to my now-eight-month-old baby, I noticed the walls were half lit and half submerged in shadows. I glanced back at my little one, noticing his in betweenness.
Still small, snuggled against my body, searching for warmth, comfort, love, but simultaneously struggling to break out from behind the cloud of baby and peak into a new world of movement and language and independence.
From the time we're tiny until even now, in my 27th year, we're always in state of limbo, a constant stream of movement; we're always in between the dusk of the pre-dawn light and the shadows of night, edging our way close to the light.
But I think, when we're little, it's the only time someone else is praying for us to linger in the stillness of shadows just a little bit longer, snuggle under the covers for just a few more minutes, before we break through the clouds and spill into full-fledged sunlight.