On my bedside table when I wake, he has left these things: 

          three perfectly measured ounces of milk, in our daughter’s favorite cup

          a still-hot mug of coconut mocha coffee 

          a peanut butter granola bar, because he knows I won’t think to feed myself

               once our toddler wakes

And on my forehead:

          the soft, tingly imprint of a bearded kiss

I picture him navigating his morning routine: quietly slipping out of bed, retreating to the windowless basement to squeeze in his workout, a shower. Before she was born, he’d decided to start rising at six a.m., so he didn’t lose “awake time” with her, he said.

He texts me throughout the day from upstairs in his home office, things like:

          aww. it’s hard to concentrate when i can hear her giggling down there.

          (in response to a picture of us snuggling under a blanket): my girls!

          sounds like you’re having a rough morning with her. :/ sorry hon

We spend our workdays on opposite ends of our city rowhome, but at day’s end, we know each other’s exhaustion: Him – from leading meetings with his software team and troubleshooting bugs. Me – from trying to fill the hours quarantined with a toddler, redirecting her with play-doh when she tries to climb onto the coffee table, obliging when she insists I draw Minnie Mouse. 

Around five o’clock, a chorus of footsteps mark the end of the workday: his first, above us, signaling he is up from his desk. Then our daughter’s pitter-patter, racing to the bottom of the staircase, bouncing on her toes, fingers laid atop the baby gate that blocks her way, waiting. I join her there, my toes also wiggling in anticipation.

➽

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 this series “280 Words”.