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Last weekend, I spent some time with my godson (about forty eight hours, to be exact) while his mama went to Madison for work and his papa traveled about the United States in his long haul truck. (A side now: congratulations, by the way, are due Richard who has secured a more local job recently, which means more family time and a daycare pickup that will make Kelly's life a bit more smooth.)

I slept on their sofa for two nights, their goofy dog licking me awake before the baby began his babble (for the record: 4:45 the first morning, 5:30 the second), and as soon as I slipped upstairs, to change the weighty diaper and brace myself for the wailing protest that is changing from pjs to clothes (and back again), the pup took my spot. In the end, it didn't matter, and when I look back on that faraway time that was last weekend, I think of my time when the world outside was dark, which strikes me as strange as I fell asleep a little before nine on that second night, but the truth was, the world is dark for a little while after Christian rises. There's something gorgeous about watching the sun rise, not because we stayed up so late, but because our world began before the world did.

Kelly kept asking me if the weekend was fun, and finally I gave in, telling her: No, that's not the word I would use to describe it. An adventure, sure. Fun? Fun is when you aren't the responsible one, the one that needs to fix the crying, warm the bottle, and keep the dog from eating the cat's puke (and being firm enough in your No! that Christian does not take it for him, as he cries at the word no spoken in such a way). Fun could even be those things, if a partner was there to help, to scoop up the poopy diapers while you make up a diaper changing song, or cleaning the dishes while you soothe in those bouncy paces around the room.

And truly, I think fun could be associated with such a task, if done in conjunction with someone you really love. There were moments in my forty eight hour solo faux-parenting adventure where I thought: Thank goodness I have no children (yet); I am too selfish to do this every day. Of course I am, lonely and facing the same singing mirror and stackable trucks, reading a book for class that I found myself disliking and needing to write an essay on.

But this, I can certainly tell you, a little less than a week after my Christian marathon:

1. I love my home, I love my husband, I love my dogs, I love my bed, I love being a graduate student, I love my life.
2. I love Kelly, I love Christian, and Richard isn't so bad either.
3. I will have kids some day, somehow. I think Ryan and I will make OK parents.
4. It's really handy to have a goofy dog around when a baby is wailing because he can do one of two things: he can tear up and down the sofa, driving me batty (which is hilarious to said baby) or, he can lick the tears off the face of said wailing baby, which is equally thrilling (though fairly disgusting).

And:

5. Despite the fact that I happily brought him to daycare a half hour early on Tuesday morning, I miss that little bugger, and when I look at this set of photographs, I want to dive right in and hold him tight. Darn kid got me, tugs at my heart.