I ran into a neighbor while taking out the compost last night. The early evening sun burned low and bright in the sky, and the heat of the day lingered with no signs of giving way to the usual coolness of a Pacific Northwest night. We are in the midst of what constitutes a heat wave in these parts, it having been in the upper 80s for the better part of a week. There’s always a reason to talk about the weather here, as everywhere, be it bemoaning the consistent dreary grey of our winters or marveling at the good fortune of our easy, beautiful summers. Of course the weather came up as we chatted.
“How has H been sleeping in this heat?” she asked.
“About the same as always,” I reported, explaining that he was a wakey wakey infant and that he continues to be wakey wakey as a toddler.
“How many times a night?” she asked.
“Probably between four and six, although I have stopped counting,” I said, smiling at her.
“But he’s totally worth it, right?” Her return smile was warm and empathic.
And then the truest, most honest words came tumbling of my mouth fully formed without thought, as if they had bypassed the thinking part of my brain and come straight from the gut.
“He is such a joy, I wouldn’t trade him for sleep.”
And it’s true. I wouldn’t. Not for sleep, not for anything.