It's the night before our Christmas. (That is, the special, early Christmases that families with doctors and nurses and police officers and firefighters get, or so I tell my children). The house is perfectly silent, save for the tiny snores of Leo, as he breathes directly onto my cheek. He is especially clingy tonight, and I know if I move, this whole house will be awake in minutes. My neck is stiff, my throat is so dry that it hurts, and yet there is not a place on earth I would rather be than in this twin bed, smelling this baby's freshly washed hair, feeling his cool little forehead pressed up against mine. These are the moments I keep locked inside. These memories are the ones I hope don't ever go away. This is, quite literally, my heaven.