He’s given up in this spot, as he sometimes does. Slumped over the bright green, surrounded by jumping frogs, floating birds and the occasional notes of a jungle rhythm.


I scoop him up gently and with the most tender, sleeping touch, he rests his hand on my neck. Those dimpled hands that I have glanced over to for the last 30 minutes, in the jumper that isn’t jumping, forcing my heart into a puddle on the floor and my eyes from whatever show I’m not as invested in as those hands.

We carefully climb the stairs, his head on my shoulder, facing first one way, and then, with a sigh, the other.
I lay him ever so softly in his bed next to mine and sneak into the hall to open the first door and then the second. In his room, I see curled up, Lego-pajama-clad legs only partially covered by his favorite Thomas the Train blanket and hear strains of the radio that has drifted him into dreamland.

Some people say that there’s a woman to blame…

Padding down the hall, I quietly open the door that reveals our girls, breathing deeply on either side of their shared space. One in a long flannel nightgown, her arms splayed hapharzardly, the other, folded into herself and her pink footie pajamas.

Now. Now, I can lie down peacefully, satisfied that my reasons for being are where they belong. My heart is full and my eyes are heavy.



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