By the time he came to bed he had
a beer in the lobby,
a double whiskey,
another phone call with our insurance company and roadside assistance.
The sun was rising when he showered,
slipped under the duvet,
answered the questions that kept me from falling asleep,
“It’s sunrise,
you did well,
sleep, sleep,
I love you.”
By the time I bought three different milkshakes in Amboise for babies one, two, and three,
we’d given up any hope of sleeping in.
My little one made sure of it.
Mommy, are we in Paris?
Mommy, I’m hungry.
Mommy, can I get crepes?
“May I!” he said, half asleep from under the duvet.
He asked me, “Why are you up?”, looking at me
fitting wide soft straps over my shoulders,
cradling my reclaimed territory in generous cups,
adjusting cleavage before pulling a white deep v-neck t-shirt over my head.