I’m laying on Boy’s floor. He’s crawling around, playing with toys and singing to himself. I have a pillow under my head and a blanket over my body and I’m trying to do that “not really asleep but nearly comatose” thing parents do when they’re just that tired. He’s teething and we’ve had several long nights. Even when he hasn’t been awake, I have been. My ancient body doesn’t fall back to sleep the way my younger body used to do. So there we are, Last Child and I, spending an early morning hour with each other. Boy army-crawls over to me, kisses me on the mouth (this is the open mouthed, baby slobber variety of kiss), lays down on the pillow next to me and goes to sleep.
For that, I would go through a hundred nights like the past few.