I need a break.

At least, that’s what I thought when I dragged myself out of bed this morning after a whopping two hours of sleep.

Apparently, waking your four-month-old up at nine o’clock to watch the DVRed LOST finale with you is not the wisest of plans.  Turns out, it’s sorta like investing 121 hours of your life in a crappy television show.

A dumbass move.

So I spent the bulk of last night shuffling from our room to Lil Mil’s nursery, determined not to undo all our hard work by getting her out of her crib.  I showed her who was boss, alright.  She stayed in her crib, and I stayed awake listening to her angry protests, voiced every 18 to 22 minutes, all night long.  It was a win-win.

Around 4 a.m., it finally got quiet.  I’m going to pretend it’s because Lil Mil fell asleep, but I’m fairly sure Husband got up and shut her door.

Staring blearily at my computer screen this morning, wishing I could pour my coffee down my throat so that I wouldn’t have to expend the energy to actually drink it, I decided it was time to hire a babysitter.  So I dug out the various names and phone numbers friends have given me and called one.  Score.  She was free on Friday.

Buoyed, I set off to meet my friend S for coffee.  Last night’s sleep deprivation was working its magic on my little night tyrant, who had now lapsed into the ultra cute I’m-so-tired-I’m-just-going-to-stare-straight-ahead-mode.   Aware that her sleepy stares are the calm before the I’m-too-tired-to-do-anything-but-scream storm, I hurried to get us both into the car and on our way before she had a meltdown.  The timing was perfect: I started the car just as she was getting fussy, and by the time I pulled out of our driveway, she was out.

She woke up twenty minutes later, just as S and I were settling into our chairs.  I could tell she was still sleepy, so I pulled her out of her carseat onto my lap, where she sat quietly while S and I talked about the joys and struggles of being work-at-home moms.  The juggling act.  The time crunch.  How much we would get done if we just had a regular babysitter.  Not every day, but once a week.  Okay, twice.  Twice would be good.

As we were talking, a woman came through the door.  She smiled at me as she headed for the counter to order her coffee.  It was the smile of a fellow mom.  I smiled back.  When she passed back through on her way out, she stopped.

“How old?” she asked.  I told her.  “Mine’s nine months,” she said. I smiled.  Made some comment about how fun that must be.  “So fun,” she agreed.

“I hate being away from her,” she said then.  “People always ask me, ‘don’t you want a break?’  And the truth is, I don’t.”  She shrugged, flashing a happy smile.  “I don’t want a break.”

I looked down at Lil Mil.  Her little face was turned upward, staring at me.

Suddenly, neither did I.

(But I’ll take one, anyway.)