I know this floor well.
Its every groove, the width of the planks, the thickness of the thin rug on it. I know how many layers to put on the floor so that I can lay on it through the night, and wake up with some semblance of normalcy and comfort at having had a (somewhat) full night's rest. And I know how many layers I need to keep me comfortable at different times of the year, different weather conditions outside, and the conditions inside. It's the conditions inside that often prompt me to sleep on this floor - most notably, when Baby1 falls ill, as Baby2 seems to have inherited some derivation of my immune system.
Thankfully, she falls ill quite a lot less now than she used to when she was a baby. I still remember the first time I fell asleep on that floor, quite by accident, after putting her to bed after nursing. I lay there for a bit just until she fell asleep - until I found that it was both of us who had completely fallen asleep, me snoring a lot louder than she. I remember sleeping on that floor next to her little crib, when she had an awful coughing fit for a good part of one night, refused food and water, enough that the next morning she was dehydrated and we entailed our first visit to and overnight stay at the children's hospital downtown. There were many nights during her growing years, when I would sleep next to her on the floor, just to be able to hold and squeeze her hand in mine when she coughed during the night, to let her know I was there and to express silent empathy for her coughing and sniffling. These days, she falls ill only with minor colds and coughs, but every little cough is still enough for a request that I sleep next to her.
I remember coming home after an evening out, and her coughing woke her. I heard her little feet pitter-patter across the floor upstairs. Beckoned her downstairs, to find a pouty-faced little girl who lamented that she was coughing again and couldn't sleep. Could you sleep next to me, she asked. Why of course I would. I know these nights and requests won't last forever.
So there I went, layering blankets and sheets on the floor so that I could sleep between her and Baby2. She had already folded her quilt and arranged it like a pillow for my head - but I would use it as my cover last night and my own pillow for my head. She, all tucked into her flannel cover, body stretched practically from the headboard to the foot of her toddler bed, watched with big-as-moon eyes as I arranged the covers to keep myself comfortable. She offered an animal - a stuffed tiger - as my sleeping companion. And then, as I tucked myself in for the night, from the edge of her bed came her little hand.
I held and squeezed her hand - and while I hold her hand just about every morning we walk to school together, I realized just last night in the quiet of sure sleep how much her little hand had grown, almost as big as mine. She requested our song, and we sang it together - and I remembered back to that night in the hospital when I held her little baby hand in mine and sang the same song to her, as she slowly drifted off to sleep. I rarely let go of that hand before she falls asleep.
So I know the floor well, as I lay here now holding Baby1's hand to help her go back to sleep, after our unbelievably early morning alarm clock a la woodpecker on my metal chimney cap, hammering his notice to all the girls out there while sending sounds like a jackhammer reverberating through our house (the boys, classic, sleep through the whole thing. I cough up that ability to comfort to knowing someone else will take care of the problem.). I know its every groove, plank, and joint has supported my little moments with my little girl, and while these moments won't last forever, I'll dream of sleeping on tatami mats while I hold her little hand.
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