M is curled up under the fleecy cloud of his down duvet, printed in trains and train tracks and railroad crossing signs while wooden blocks, rejected clothes and crayons litter his bedroom floor.
Our colossal bed with wings like arms embraces little Lev in his sleep, his mouth still motioning in sucking rhythms while the agony of his piercing molars is drawn in his furrowed eyebrows and intermittent whimpering.
And next to him, sleeps husband, making his presence known with deep intakes of breath let out by ironclad snores.
The night ahead will undoubtedly be interrupted. Sleep is no longer understood as slumber that stretches throughout the lion’s share of the night, but rather, brief segments of shut-eye frequently disrupted with cries for milk, cuddles or other mysterious night-waking habits.
Though sleep can get scarce, we have become the home of a ‘family bed.’ M comes and goes, most often starting out in his own bed, but recently, more often than not we all wake together in the morning, sheets in disarray, limbs entangled, warm, cozy and happy. Despite the sometimes rude awakenings of foot in jaw, or elbow in chest, I long for those periods when the rhythm of sleep befalls our bed and tiny hands unconsciously explore my face, tugging at my hair for the reassurance of my presence. It most certainly won’t last forever.
And for that same reason, I know my exhaustion won’t, either. 🙂