Dare I say it…I have a spoiled child. Particularly when it comes to bed time. He falls asleep in my bed. There was a time when he would fall asleep in his own bed and stay there through the night. That time has been gone for a while. Some nights I will move him to his bed. Not tonight. Not yet.
Anyway, I am reading and working myself up to writing with this seemingly small body beside me on my fairly large bed. I keep shuffling and moving around. I feel tight and tense; limited in motion in a way. Then I realize what I realize every nigh that this picture of beauty and life falls asleep in my bed. I have been relegated to about a two foot strip in my bed. The bad part is that, as he flips, twists, and rotates, I am honoring this portion that he has bestowed upon me. I take no more. He crosses over into my stake of the bed often resting his head on my arm or my side or my legs. Yet I remain obedient. One might say that I am trained.
THEN, as he works his way into a deep snuggle with me (melting my heart) his face shifts to this frown of irritation. Disdain almost. Without opening his eyes, he faces me and pushes out against me as if to say “SCOOTCH OVER!” I move and continue reading. One leg slightly hanging off the bed. I longingly look over at the approximate 24 square feet of open bed space. I plot my move, hoping to be swift and silent so as not to disturb my landlord’s slumber. I hold my breath because the sound of my breathing at that moment could have rivaled the sound of a locomotive at full speed. I put my book on the night stand. I rest my computer gently in front my now bent legs. I get up to make my move and…FLOP! He pulls the split-second-spread-eagle-flip with at 90 degree rotation. Basically, all of that prime real estate was, in a split second, taken up. All I am now left with is the space occupied by my sitting up cross-legged body. SIGH.
One would think I weren’t so weak. Pick him up and move him. Put him in a more compact position. Put him in his own bed. All easier said than done. This is how spoiled he is. I AM THE MOMMY. I AM THE ADULT. I AM THE DISCIPLINARIAN. I correct. I care for. I nurture. What is my empowered woman self lacking in this moment? Is it his long lashes that act to sheath his piercing dark eyes as they make the present seem perfect and the future seem abundant with life? Is it his round nose keeping time with his heart with each exhale and inhale? Or could it be his hands: tiny, needing, capable? This child, when he sleeps, is a sight for the sorest of eyes. I’m cheesy and I don’t care. Ten fingers, ten toes, and a beating heart never had such an effect on me. Never mind the fact that he is completely peaceful as if angels are holding him in their wings. A couple of hours ago he was taking flying leaps off of my furniture. He was telling me he was angry with me for not getting his way. I was running his bath water and making him a plate for dinner and picking up his dirty clothes. I was doing while he was being. And maybe, now in the silence of midnight, I can be while he is being. Alive.