6:00 a.m. is just fine.

Isabelle has historically slept until about 7:30 in the morning. Sometimes she would wake up at 7:00 and sometimes sleep past 8, but 7:30 was her regular. About 3 weeks ago she started waking up at 6:00. You all know I am not a morning person. And while 7:30 pushed the edge or a barbaric hour, 6:00 hits it squarely.

Paul and I were grousing about her new morning routine. When we heard her one of us would look at the clock with a single open eye, sigh, and then try to convince the other to go get her. Usually Paul was kind enough to get her and give me another hour to sleep before she came into the room crying "Mama" and demanding my attention.

It's not that I didn't want to spend time with her. I just don't like mornings. My outlook all changed on Monday at about 7:00 am.

I was snuggling in my warm covers when I felt someone shaking me. Paul almost never wakes me up, for fear of life and limb, so I couldn't figure out what was going on. I remeber through a foggy mind him saying "Aaron called, Quinn didn't wake up this morning, he's gone." I must have looked at him with blank confusion because he explained saying, "Aaron called, Quinn is dead. I need to go over there." Paul's face was ashen.

I realized what he said to me. Our good friends, had lost their child. It would be later in the day, when I scrambled to have someone cover my work, that I would learn that when Melissa walked into 16-month old son Quinn's room she found him still. They tried chest compressions and CPR. The paramedics were called, but left empty. It was too late for little Quinn, for some reason his fragile, small body gave up. He stopped breathing and without fuss or cry, died.

I don't know that I have ever witnessed such raw sadness and shock and pain as I did on Monday. I don't think there can be anything worse than losing a child.

When Isabelle woke up at 6:17 a.m. today and for the first time, instead of being cross and tired, I was simply happy to hear her waking squawks and happy little words saying good morning to her stuffed crib friends. I want to always remember to be happy to hear her, to snuggle with her, and to hold her in my arms--warm and full of love.