I can’t remember the last time he fell asleep next to me. My sweet, stubborn, goofy three-year-old boy, hair full of curls and room full of legos.
As a baby, he spent every nap on my chest. I knew it went against most advice out there about establishing a good sleep routine, but I guess I didn’t care. He would inch his way up until his head was in the crook of my neck, his little hands by his ears, his legs curled up. And me, usually too wired or anxious to sleep as a new mom, would rest my hand on his back and feel the rise and fall of his breath.
He was so little. And I loved that he was mine.
Now that baby is three, and we’ve had a lot of hard days lately. Days I’ve found myself praying for just a little bit of peace, for something to go right, for him to agree with me on just one thing (one thing!). Days I’ve lost my patience and my temper as I’ve negotiated this uncharted territory as my little baby grows into a boy.
Yesterday I made him crawl up into his bed with me to take a rest. Kid was so tired, but hasn’t taken regular naps since he turned three.
He fought me the whole time. “No! I’m not tired, Mom! I don’t need a nap.”
Until really out of nowhere, he put his hands on my cheeks, gave me a kiss, and then inched his head into the crook of my neck and fell asleep.
And there it was again.
His back rising and falling. His breath on my neck. His little hands by his ears and my eyes brimming with tears.
I left the laundry, the dishes, the dinner prep. I left all the plans I had for that one hour of miraculous peace amongst two toddlers and a puppy. I watched that boy of mine sleep for an entire hour and all I could think was, oh, he is still so little.
And I love that he is still mine.
