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The Daytime of the Night

'Mommy....Mommy...MOOOOOOMMMMMYY!' The voice belongs to my 2-year old. As I pretend not to hear her voice, my wife gets out of bed and stumbles to the next room. 'What's that, hostess? Yes, there will be 3 in my bed tonight, thank you.' I gaze at the clock and see that it is 3:30am. This should mean that I am due for another 4 hours of sleep, but I know better. Between being poked by tiny little arms and legs and not being able to turn my brain off, I'm looking at another 20 minutes of sleep, and not all in a row.

I don't know if this is worse than what happens during the daylight hours I'm supposed to be alert for. The same little voice calls out for her mom. She wants milk, or cookies, or I don't even know. By the third plea to mommy, the focus changes. The needs haven't changed, just who she decides to ask. 'Daddy.' Though it doesn't teach her patience, I fill her milk cup, throw in some cookies, and plot as to where a nap might be found.

I really wish I didn't have to learn so many lessons from a 2-year old. I can fill my own milk cup, but I have things that I cry out for. And though 'Daddy' should be the first name I call on, it's often the last. My name should not even be on the list of who I look to for strength, and yet somehow that is always where I begin. I must sound like a 2-year old sometimes. And try as He might, I'm not sure I'll ever learn patience.

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