Dear Chattery

In the middle of the night, in a quiet house, two parents were jolted awake, not by cries, but by an impatient babble from the nursery. Ellie, their newborn, was up again, right on schedule, every two hours. They exchanged weary glances, a routine perfected over countless nights.

With a sigh, one parent shuffled to the nursery while the other prepared for the next act of the night. Ellie wasn’t hungry, nor did she need changing. She was waiting, her tiny feet wiggling with anticipation. On the shelf, her tap dancing shoes sat, gleaming under the moonlight sneaking through the window.

Gently, they slipped the shoes onto Ellie’s feet. Instantly, a calm washed over her, and with an excited gurgle, she began. Tap, tap, tap, her feet moved on the crib mattress, a miniature performance for an audience of two. The parents watched, a mix of amusement and exhaustion painting their faces. This wasn’t a scene from a whimsical tale; it was their life, marked by the soft, rhythmic tapping that filled their nights.

As Ellie’s dance wound down, her eyelids fluttered shut, satisfied with her nocturnal performance. They carefully removed the shoes, tucking her back under the blankets. Back in bed, they lay side by side, listening to the silence, punctuated only by the soft breathing of a baby who dreamt, perhaps, of grand stages and bright lights.

“This is our normal,” they whispered to each other, a smile creeping in, “Our little tap dancer.” And with that, they closed their eyes, catching a few hours of sleep before the next show began.