I’m blessed to have that Sunday kind of love. The love that is there when you’re broken on the floor crying days after giving birth and when you’re weeping along with your inconsolable infant when the only thing that will calm them is your breast and you just want a break to catch a few winks or finish the laundry or wash a few dishes.

Lake is a wonderful perfect baby. We could not have gotten a better one. Even so, after a great day of adventuring evenings can be tough. It’s like he gets too tired to function, too tired to fall asleep. All he wants to do is breastfeed until he eventually falls off, asleep. However, this is an ephemeral sleep from which he will immediately arouse if he is set down. It takes a magic number of these false starts ending in wailing then peacefully suckling again before his off switch is officially flipped. This process tests your mettle. It’s hard to stay upbeat when that little face that was so recently asleep on your breast crumples into the most abject misery imaginable.

The moments of peaceful blue eyed baby love seem distant and unattainable. In times like these I’m grateful for my Sunday kind of love husband. I can tell he’s tired too and his nerves are rattled too. And he might not have this miraculous ability to hotwire Lake’s off switch like I somehow expected he would. But he does turn to me with love and devotion and picks my spirit up off the floor and kisses my tears away. And he changes some nappies and tries some new diversion tactics with Lake while I use the toilet. And he joins in my off key singing. And he makes dinner when he’d rather not. And he puts on some soul music and slow dances me in the kitchen.