And others days you can't shake it any better than anything else.
You wake up with it, from a dream that haunts you all day and into the night.
You roll over to take in a good, long look at the miracle peacefully sleeping within arms reach.
Your heart fills with the warm fuzzies that you've heard so much about but rarely truly encountered.
You'd think this would do it. Off to the day. To deal with the weather and the traffic, the suddenly never ending poopy diapers and the hurry, hurry, hurry.
But not this day.
Everything you do, you do with a nagging something in the back of your mind. A slight tugging from behind. It implores you to stop and recall, it tempts you into its wonderment. You can't help but feel it's lure.
Eventually you give in. You go to the diaper bag and finally bring yourself to reading the discharge summary. You get to the bottom of page one and are amazed at how quickly your mind heals over the harsh. By page 12, of 19, you've hit your max and have to turn away. It's still too fresh, to sore to fully deal.
But you feel an odd sense of renew, refreshment, encouragement...hope.
We've come so far. It's cost so much, more than $2.8 million at last note. Must be something spectacular in the future.
For another parent that might be Yale or perhaps an M.D. but we're quite content with smiles and kisses.
It's been hard, it still might be, but I thank God for it every single night. I do.