She slips into our bed as she always has, every morning, since she could figure out how to climb out of her crib.
She's not The Snuggly One, so she doesn't press her body into me and tuck her knees up onto my hip like her little sister does. She just needs to be between J. and me, under the covers, with enough space to raise her arm to suck her thumb.
Except that these days, she lays down facing me, and I feel her warm little hand creeping quietly towards me, landing somewhere on my expanding stomach until it settles into its resting place just under my belly button, right where this baby likes to park his feet.
A kick. Or two.
Then ever so softly—and every morning—I hear her say, "I love you, Bundle. I'm your BIG, big sister," just in case he is ever confused about who is there.
Because she is, and has always been, caring and considerate like that.
