It’s hot and the baby is tired and hungry. I carry her into the bedroom and shut the door; muffling the noise of the boys playing. I balance her on my hip, one arm wrapped around her sweaty body, as I turn on the window air conditioner and draw the shades. She bounces in my arms, buries her head into my chest, and wiggles with excitement. She knows what AC and a dark room mean. We climb onto the bed and I lean back against the wall and pull her up close to nurse. Her eyes flutter closed, but she is not asleep. She takes long, hungry drinks. Her free hand holds a small, fuzzy blanket that she works over and over in between her tiny, plump fingers. I think about grabbing my phone on the nightstand to pass the time catching up on email. But as she nurses a beautiful tidal wave of hormone induced relaxation – oxytocin – crashes over me and I sink lower into the bed, instead of being “productive”. After a few minutes she relaxes, her breathing even, asleep. She is still latched on securely without any sign of letting go. I notice how long her hair is getting and tuck a damp curl behind her ear. I imagine that the dark, cool room, holding my perfectly content baby daughter, is what heaven might feel like. I feel my own brain growing fuzzy. We curl together very still. The air conditioner kicks on and I wake up, the baby drops off of my breast. I carefully lay her down in her crib, smiling as a rivulet of cream trickles from her mouth. I go to leave the room, my hand on the doorknob, when I change my mind. The room and the sound of my baby’s breath draw me back in and I sprawl out on our crisp white sheets letting the oxytocin and the hum of the AC lull me to sleep.