Posted on | November 20, 2012 | 4 Comments
Although I “rationally” know that I should be encouraging my child to transition into his own bed, tucking him in and slipping out through the cracked door to allow both of us sound sleeping in separate beds… I just can’t seem to bring myself to do it. Because right now, bedtime is the one time when my crazy, hectic, very three, spastic bull of a child tucks his head into the crook of my neck and allows me to just lay there and bury my thoughts in his curly hair.
It is my favorite time of the day, the moments when he stands at the side of my bed and asks for a “leg up” even though he can totally do it by himself. He burrows into the blankets of the bed, giggling and pulling the comforter up high over his head.
“Come into the tent,” he giggles, motioning for me to join him. And if it’s not too late, I do, scrunching down knees over ankles until my face is pressed close to his and we’re both grinning.
“It’s so very dark in here,” his voice wiggles through the air, excited and tired, and I can do nothing but smile as he tells me a story… maybe about a brave knight, maybe about a dragon, maybe about a silly prince or monster fighter… but always, always, always with a mommy who helps make it all better in the end. I hope his stories will always be full of exciting deeds and brave heroics… and maybe with a touch of love, be it mine or someone else’s. When the stories are finished, we pull back the covers and let our heads fall against the pillows. Though we start one on each, he tosses and turns his way onto my pillow, feet tucked into my side and fingers wrapped around my arms.
Just after I switch off the lamp and just before he falls to sleep, he pops out his pacifier, eyes closed and whispers “I love you momma.”
And he waits, knowing that in the same semi-shared breath I will always be there to whisper back:
“I love you, too, baby boy.”