Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Asleep: Monday, 2:55 a.m.

I hear the familiar slap of bare feet on the wood floors. Then, a poofy-haired silhouette framed by the light from the office closet.

He's holding his favorite Richard Scary book, almost half his height. I look at the clock.

Sam: "Me not sleepy andy-more."

Sometimes, I think I am a much better parent at 3 in the morning than I am during waking hours. I somehow get myself vertical and guide Sam back to his bed. I lie down next to him. This used to be easier before his toddler bed arrived and he was sleeping on a twin mattress on the floor. Now, I squeeze between wooden rails meant to keep him from rolling onto the floor and often become his defacto headboard and fotoboard, with my feet dangling over the end of the bed. I prop them on a bean bag chair for comfort. I wait for Sam's breathing to become even and measured. I wait for him to stop twitching and writhing like he has ants in his zumpies. Then, I carefully extract myself from his side and tip-toe back to my own bed and fall back to sleep.

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