It’s late. Me and my computer are spending some quality time together.

I get up to use the restroom for the – oh I lose track of the number of times. I pass a set of ten toes in the hallway. And a curly head. He’s sitting in the doorway reading by the light of the hall lamp. It’s way later than he should still be up.

But he’s wearing the puppy pajama pants and I can’t resist.

He’s delighted to accept the invitation to the big bed. Naturally his big brother overhears, wants to come too.

They slide in next to me. Kick, adjust, resettle all the blankets, the pillows, and the quilt. Hot bodies breathing next to me as I type. Sharing bits and pieces of their day. Holding them up for me to comment on as I’m working to recap my own. The new knight’s sword somehow made it into the bed too. Along with the snuffly breathing and the blocked noses. There’s music swelling from my computer and now also from my heart.

There is no space that is solely my own anymore.

Not even inside my own body.

It can suffocate. And some nights the tension spills out of my mouth in shrill frustration and out of my eyes, my nose and down my cheeks. But sometimes when that happens, like tonight, there’s a chubby hand waiting to catch it. To cup my face and pull it down to toddler eye level and whisper, “Don’t cwy, mama. It’s gonna be ok.”

Just like his father did a decade before we even dreamed the possibility of a son, let alone two.

They take my space, my life and energy and eat up all that I plan and dream and hope and fear. They metabolize it. And then they give it back to me. Palm up. Cupped for me to see.

And I kneel down and take it with both hands. And the music. Oh the music swells between these four tight walls and the limited space in this bed.

Don’t want to miss a post? Sign up to get them emailed to your doorstep right here
Or delivered to your reader of choice.

  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •