One late night as I tiptoed back to bed after rinsing my pump parts in the kitchen sink, Jeff groggily raised his head from the pillow. "Why do you count?" he asked. "Count?" I queried, a bit confused. (This was, after all, in the midst of the first four months of sleep deprivation.) "Count the steps. Every night I hear you: 'nine, ten, eleven, floor.' Why do you count?"
I don't think I'd realized I was doing it aloud until that moment, so the question caught me off guard. The rhythmic counting, though, was designed to do exactly the opposite: so that I wouldn't be caught off guard on my endless trips up and down the stairs in the wee hours of the morning, I'd started counting the steps. Since Lily's nursery is at the top of the stairs, turning on the hall light wasn't an option, so I had to figure out another way to navigate my ascents and descents. Without realizing it, I'd become reliant on the cadence of my foot falling on the eleven carpeted steps before hitting the wood flooring at the top or bottom.
After Jeff's question that night, I began to think more about the other small things I never noticed before Lily was in our lives. Until about a month ago, I never knew exactly where the outlets were in each room--not until I had to crawl on my hands and knees, outlet protectors tucked in my sweatshirt pocket. I had no idea that not only a cat but also a small person could wedge herself through the railing in the living room, and I hadn't stopped to think about how enticing a roll of toilet paper would be, particularly if the holder provides a sturdy enough grip for pulling oneself up. No one told me that the bubbling cat fountain would make a perfect hand washing station or that the dry kibbles of Iams on the floor presented an easily obtainable snack.
But I also never realized how much joy there is in a Saturday morning when your daughter is gleefully banging Tupperware on the kitchen floor as you pour a cup of coffee and your husband forages in the fridge for breakfast. I never knew that a mealtime punctuated with squeals of delight and flapping arms could make me laugh so hard. And I certainly had no idea that peekaboo could occupy me for hours on end when every new "peek" is accompanied by a spontaneous giggle.
Though my trips up and down the stairs are less frequent now, they still happen. Inevitably, they are related to Lily's comfort or well-being in some way--I'm returning pump parts to the kitchen, carrying her monitor upstairs at the end of the night, or checking the thermostat to make sure the nursery is warm enough for her. Instead of feeling frustrated by them, though--as I'm prone to feel at some hour when I'd far rather be sleeping--I try to now remember that it's a privilege to count the stairs, a privilege to know that just twelve steps takes me to the threshold of my daughter's door, to the sight of her exuberant grin, to the sound of her deep breaths as she sleeps.
Nine, ten, eleven... Joy.
