I lie and wonder if she is just searching for that comfortable position like she does, or if something is really wrong? She didn't have a fever all day yesterday and the doctor said her ears were just fine.
I lie their stiff, waiting, not wanting to fully wake up and I think about those cuspid teeth I suspected were coming in earlier. I relax a little. I hear it again and throw back the blankets. I know it is not the "I-need-my-blankie" kind of cry. I creep into her room and adjust the light to see her sitting up, hand over her ear again, or is it her cheek?
I gently pick her up, reach for the Tylenol and sit with her after I give her a dose. She straddles my waist with her head pressed against my chest. I had forgotten how wonderful the weight of her felt. Within minutes I hear her breathing heavy again and I think about lying her back down. But the weight of her pressed against me holds me back and I decide to just hold her.
I close my eyes. Arms wrapping her frame, I feel her weight and I'm thankful for the disturbance of my rest and for the weight of the day that I traded for the weight of her, and I remember that this is where grace is found...always in the in-calculated moments.