I jolt from my sleep to the sound of her cry. With my cheek sunken into the pillow, my thoughts will that the sound will stop. My eyelids fall shut again. It seems they just gave way to the weight of the day and the book that lies beside me. I hear it again. My body is tense and I haven't been woken like this in months. I've gotten used to calculating my days down to the hour, where I finally have time to breathe, rest and refuel.
I lie wondering 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 there waiting, not wanting to fully wake up and I think about those cuspid teeth I had suspected were coming in earlier. Just as I begin to relax, I hear it again and throw back the blankets. I know it's not the "I need my blankie" kind of cry. Creeping into her room, I 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 giving her a dose. With her head pressed against my chest, she straddles my waist. I had forgotten how soothing the weight of her feels in the dim night. I soon hear her breathing heavy again and I think about lying her down. But the weight of her pressed against me restrains me and I just hold her.
With my arms wrapped around her frame, I close my eyes thankful for the disturbance of my rest. I'm thankful for the weight of the day that I traded for the weight of her, and I realize that this is where grace is found–always in the un-calculated moments.