In his sleep, Jory looks like Jory. My baby looks like himself in his sleep. He doesn't look like the boy who is getting more mischievous as he gets older, who needs to be reminded more often at home and at school that he's not the boss of the younger kids and that the twins have a parent called mommy. Or like the little boy who has put his own twist on his sister's "but you said, 'Yes,'" with his "Don't you remember you said, I could have..."
Rowan is Rowan in her sleep. A thumb in her mouth, sometimes a hand intertwined in her hair. She doesn't look like the little girl who likes to open doors without asking, who can scream like Jamie Lee Curtis in a horror film, who hates swimming lessons like the plague, and who sometimes thinks listening and obeying are options.
Ah, the baby. In her sleep, she looks like a sweet, innocent baby. Not like a baby who jumps off sofas, who thinks sitting in time out for two seconds means time out is over, who gives off attitude when things don't go her way.
They are my lovable, perfect little angels and then they wake up.
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