I open his door and lift all almost four years of his sweet goodness into my arms.
I want my no-no.
You can't have it, baby. You're a big boy now. You're not a baby anymore.
I feel his tears as he stumbles with his words,
When I get to be ba-be 'gain?
I squeeze and hold him tight. Trying to explain what I don't even want to understand.
Go to sleepytown. You'll have sweet dreams.
What I deam?
You'll dream about puppy dogs and super heroes. And when you wake your no-no will be in the fridge waiting on you.
I stand at his door and listen to soft sobs until quiet, willing myself to not get the no-no.
I awake to the sound of running feet on hard floor. He climbs up beside me and says . . .
I had sweet deams las' nite, Mommy.
You did? What did you dream?
I deamed 'bout puppies and su-per heloes and lou.
My gratitude list continues . . .
him dreaming of me
uneven bangs
a wall to lean on when willpower is weak
the sound of running tiny feet
a child's forgetfulness
the smell of baby shampoo
listening to bedtime prayers with daddy
him running to me with teeth brushed, mouth wide open
little arms around me
morning bed hugs
timers set
songs to Jesus
quarter offerings
My list, #'s 384-396.
