Sometimes, Evan wakes up restless at 6 AM. Even if he’s eaten himself into oblivion only an hour before, the first light of the day seeps into the room leaving him alert and unsure of what he wants.

I peek over the edge of his crib, and he looks at me, wide-eyed and grinning. I peel off his nightshirt and lift his warm, clammy body into bed beside me. We sing our good morning song, which makes him smile. I wrap myself around him, and we chat for a bit about what we’ll do that day while he curls his toes around my fingers. We fall back to sleep for a while, and I wake up with his breath next to my face. Then dad joins us, and we tell him all about our night.

Right after telling you about the brutal first few weeks of parenthood, people will tell you to treasure this time. I never quite understood that. Do you want me to bear it, or love it? But now that I’m here, it makes sense despite the mixed messages.

Today is Evan’s two-month birthday, and I’m already feeling nostalgic.

I know I’m going to miss our morning cuddles as he grows. There will be other rewards, but we’ll never be as physically intimate as we are right now. He needs me, and I need him. Even in the middle of the night, three feedings in, it’s magic.