Oh, baby girl, how difficult you make the night time.
When I come home at 11pm, after being gone all day, all I want is to hold you high in the air and laugh with you. We could make the mome raths and borogoves envious of our joy. The sacred Navi stone of the northern nomads, said to forever point toward paradise, would divert its perfect compass precision toward us, just for a glimse of inspiration, returning only to find that paradise is not where it once thought. We could make the stars toggle a morse code glimmer, shouting jokes into the midnight sky, sharing the fun with the rest of the universe.
And you fold and bend like a fortune fish against my torso, professing that I must be happy. You roll over and nearly fall off. I must be in love. You look up at me as we walk and stare with such wonder and awe. I want to sing to you. I want to show you the beauty of the world--your little smile and sweet eyes in a mirror. I wish for camera eyes of my own to capture what only I can see--these looks that you won't give a camera, only meant for me.
Against my chest, you wiggle and burbble, spraying raspberry kisses and looking around the room frantically. It must be playtime because daddy is here. It must be time to run around and giggle. Isn't it? Can't we jump and fly, become airplanes and rockets, bullfrogs and kangaroos. Listen, daddy, I've been working on my creekity croak. And you inhale with a long, bubbly croak like the smoothest, softest bubble wrap, gently being squeezed, one bubble at a time, in a perfect pitch stream. Are you a frog, a baby raptor, a mythical beast that no mortal has ever heard and lived? How much I struggle to resist mimicking your sound, encouraging it. I love when you make that sound.
I wish it were time to play. I want only to play, to laugh, to make silly mouth faces and noises with you. But it's late. Your mamma wants to sleep. I must do the same. You must do the same. If only we could stay awake all the time...