Last night, R’s bedtime routine went something like this:

• I carried her upstairs and stuck her in the bathtub where I endured 20 minutes of splashing and intentional face plants into the bathwater,
• losing in the process about 10 years off my life and gaining at least 3 new gray hairs;
• managed to wrangle her slippery, squirmy, chubby body out of the bath and into a cozy towel,
• where she proceeded to pee;
• put her back in the tub for a quick wash down;
• diapered her and pajamaed her;
• settled into the comfy rocking chair in the stillness of the dim nursery,
• where I was serenaded by the 20-month-old version of Holy Holy Holy while gazing into her blue eyes;
• cradled her precious baby face close to my heart while the lower half of her body wriggled and thrashed about,
• until I got a foot in my eye;
• had my earring ripped out of my earlobe tugged mercilessly by inquisitive fingers;
• let her purposefully wipe her snotty nose on my favorite sweatshirt;
• finally gave up on the rocking chair and got up to pace approximately 2 miles in her 10′ X 12′ bedroom until my arms were numb and she finally succumbed to sleep;
• sat back down in the rocker with my sleeping baby and nestled my face into her soft, squishy baby cheek;
• inhaled the sweet, clean scent of Johnson’s Baby Bath and nuzzled her silky fine baby hair;
• finally lay her, sleeping soundly, in her familiar crib;
• stood over her to admire her perfection before tip-toeing out into the hall and gently closing the door.

And I wouldn’t trade a second of it for the world.  Not even the boogies on my sweatshirt.