2. It was impossible to leave her room until well after 4 a.m. when she finally conked out with her head on your shoulder and her feet stuffed into the corner of her pink recliner. If the words "let her cry" have flittered anywhere near the vicinity of the tip of your tongue, just zip that thing back in. This girl eats Battle of the Wills for breakfast, then she cries so hard that she barfs it into the hard-to-reach corners of her crib and all over her blankets.
Aside: You keep accidentally calling her crib a cage.
3. Once you've been held captive in a toddler's bedroom for 2 hours on a night when you have to wake an hour earlier than the earliest you ever wake, sleep does not return easily. Rather, one might lie, tensed for the caterwaul that indicates she noticed that you stopped rubbing her back and no longer seem readily available to, say, draw her an elephant with a purple crayon.
Note: Chuck had remained in perma-tense mode the whole time you were gone and hadn't slept either.
4. Around 4:30 a.m. she starts in with this fake cry noise. It sounds like a moose imitating an ambulance. You both agree to let it go. Maybe she will moo-siren herself to sleep. You blast past 5 a.m. and it's still going on and no matter how hard you try to imagine the rhythm of your running shoes on a well-worn path, you cannot block out the zoo.
Chuck says forgetit. He's getting up.
You feel like you're being tortured and you can't stop yourself from crying out (something like) "Please be quiet please."
You hear Chuck go into her room. She quiets. He comes out much later.
You must fall asleep at least a little. When your alarm goes off you decide to skip the shower. Last night's post-elliptical shower will have to suffice for today. When your next alarm goes off, you decide you'll wear a hat today. When your next alarm goes off you decide to head straight for your meeting instead of making a stop you'd planned. When your next alarm goes off, you decide it probably takes only 22 minutes to get across town instead of 35. When your next alarm goes off, so does The Girl.
And it's her normal waking hour, so here she is awake.
A lot of boring domestication happens after that, but suffice to say that you get dressed in the living room with the words to "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" itching deep in the crevices of your brain. You spend the day with your face looking like it was exfoliated with slumber party crumbs. You go for a run, but it's slow. You suspect you're going to regret staying up late enough to put words on the internet.