I love all the going to sleep things.

All of them. I love all the baby sleep things.

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I love how when we’re still on the couch the binky falls out of her mouth but her lips stay open in a precious, little pout.

I love the way her sleepy arms fall away from her sides when I stand up.

Sometimes she’ll absent-mindedly throw her binky across the room, and I love how she tries to find part of her hand to suck on. She tries the thumb, the side of her index finger, the end of her palm. She tries it all and gets so frustrated, and I find her so lovable right then.

I love her footie pajamas. I love her chubby little legs, the way she looks up at me while we get dressed for bed. I love that she’s starting to have these hints of her kid self in her baby face.

I love reading books at night with her. Sometimes it’s her cardboard stories, and she studies the pictures. Sometimes it’s poetry because she’s too tired for pictures and just wants to hear my voice and I love Mary Oliver.

I love the way the lamp across the room silhouettes the profile of her face, rising up the slope of her nose, falling off the edge of her chin, playing in her eyelashes.

I don’t even mind when she’s in the bassinet by my bed and needs me to rock her. I put my foot against the leg of bassinet and rock her to sleep.

Tonight as she was falling asleep, she giggled.

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