Wednesday, November 3, 2010


He's always been a good sleeper. He used to go to bed with less difficulty. He didn't used to need an escort to the bathroom. He didn't complain about the air conditioning being on. He didn't imagine noises or manage to find the movement of hangers in my closet to be a disturbing sound. He used to just go to bed. Now, there is a whole slew of nonsense that accompanies his bedtime rituals before nap and at night. I think it is worse because of the two flights of stairs to get to the little face that now can peer over the banister. Or maybe it's just annoying to take someone to pee only to have to run up again to escort him to poop not 3 minutes later. And then go up again to hear a "secret".

It's really irrelevant. Because after all that time getting him to go to bed and then finally, impatiently threatening his life if he comes out of bed again, I go in there around 10 p.m. I remove the door prop, I fix his blankets, I put all the askew body parts in place, and I kiss his temple. I suck in a deep whiff and fill up all my senses with his smell. I fill up my lungs with the newborn scent that somehow still accompanies him and the mildewy sent that resides on his stuffed elephant. I am, at that moment, aware of the warmth that rises from him and enjoy it. I don't miss him. I don't want to hang out with him. I don't want him to wake up. I really really don't want him to wake up. I just want to be there with him. Breathing him in. Enjoying his peacefulness. Appreciating his long limbs and how he developing into this little boy. Accepting how lucky I am to have him there, like that, as he is.

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