Image credit: Caucas on Flickr

I lie beside him as the early afternoon sun streams through the blinds. As I wait for him to fall asleep every wiggle-squirm feels like a tick-tock of the clock.

Will he sleep? I want him to nap so we can go on our planned adventure later this afternoon. I need him to nap so I can get a few things done.

The thought crosses my mind—as it has done so many times before—that it would be so nice if he were one of those kids who will fall asleep without my staying with him until he’s out.

But he’s not one of those kids.

He wiggle-squirms again and the clock tick-tocks.

I hear the dishwasher running downstairs and I think of my semi-clean kitchen. I make a mental list of what I want to try to accomplish while he’s asleep so another weekend doesn’t go by without getting anything done, leaving chaos to reign.

Tick-tock goes the clock.

The wiggle-squirms start to slow, and I hear the familiar deep breathing that’s a sign of coming sleep. Everything in me starts to slow, too, and the sound of the dishwasher fades into an awareness of quiet.

Just when I think he’s asleep, he takes my arm and pulls it around him, then pulls it around some more so he’s wrapped tightly. This is going to be a hard one to get out of without waking him, I think.

In the quiet room, awash in bright sunlight, I feel his warmth. I sense his breathing. I feel his quiet.

The tick-tock of the clock comes back, but this time it’s a different awareness. Not of things to do and bathrooms to clean but of passing days, a growing boy and the fleeting nature of this time when he’ll let me lie with my arms around him while he sleeps.

So I lie there a little longer, cherishing his small-boy softness and his warmth and his peacefulness.

I want to remember this.

So I write it down.