Back in the day with Mr. Early Riser.

It’s Saturday morning. 5:06 a.m. I curse at the clock and look into the monitor. Twelve-month-old Ian is tucked into the corner of his crib. Tushy in the air.

His being awake and in this position could mean one of two things: He’s cold. Or he’s wet. At 5:06 a.m., neither of them is good. It’s also thundering outside. Option three: he’s scared.

I feel an elbow in my back from Max, who trotted into bed with us a little earlier when awoken by the storm.

I start wiggling my toes. It’s like yoga, I tell myself. You slowly start to move your extremities, and then the rest will follow.

Then I’m up.

Sure enough, Ian is wet. And petrified. He cries and cries from the change table like a baby possessed. He’s not still asleep. It’s not a nightmare. But he needs. Something.

When he’s dry again and his new PJs zipped, I pick him up and he settles into my chest. He hasn’t done this since he was an infant. My pajamas dip down a little, and he’s found a warm patch of skin. I imagine he’s listening to my heartbeat. Perhaps I’m listening to it, too. It feels so good to hold him like this. I almost don’t mind being up at 5:00 am on a Saturday morning. Almost.

He whimpers once or twice more and then exhales. Ahhh. Comfort. When his breathing settles, I put him back down. He sleeps again until 6:40 am, when he’s up for good. No need to decode that one. He’s just an early riser.