Naomi Rivka, 5:45 a.m.

Crying, LOUD.
I run into the room.  She doesn't usually wake up at night anymore, and it's the kind of sad, hurt crying that you run to - not walk.
By the time I get into the room, though, she's quiet.
Me:  "What's going on?  What's the matter?  What do you need?"
Naomi:  "I'm tired!"
Me:  "Okay, I'm here now; it's okay.  You just go back to sleep."
And she did.


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