Because He Reaches For Me In The Night

There are days. Lordy, I say, there are days. August is two, and there are days, that the rapid-fire succession of my name being whined in the most ear-curdling tone, the dog food strewn from room to room, the constant invasion of my personal space, and too urgent desire to rearrange the button pattern of my shirt combine with the never-ending sticky grasp of demands.

I tell you those are days too.

I don't get breaks, no one really does, but us single mama's, we definitely don't.

Some days I sit in my bathroom, that doesn't have a lock, and pray to just make it to my next school day for sweet relief, and adult interaction.

But, in the darkness of the night, the tiniest of fingers reach for me, the littlest feet scoot along the flannel propelling the littlest man body you have ever seen until the crown of his golden head rests neatly in the den of my neck, the way a cat curls on the braided rug before the hearth. And we are warm.

And in those moments there is no cry that he is just "manipulating me" and I don't wonder the humanist vs. behaviorist approach of his development. I'm not ashamed of the avocado, kiwi, and chips he had for lunch. I certainly am not thinking about whether or not Carl Rogers would notice the unrealistically Ideal Self I am creating for him.

In those moments I'm smelling the smell of his hair and noticing the way the street light laps at his cheeks and dances upon the pout of his perfectly kissable lips.

There are days, that I have a paper due, a test coming, 4 hours of home work, not a dollar to my name and not a sitter in sight. Those are the days I kick myself for not owning a T.V. because I wish to anything that would listen that I could make use of an electronic baby sitter, to save my grades, sanity, and the overall morale of our tiny household. Those are the days that I know if he touches the tool box, or tries to climb on the bathroom counter to get to his vitamins one more damn time, I'm going to implode.

And then he says, "I luge you mommy!" or tells me about how his "big belly is full of water," he has been drinking out of the faucet, mind you.

But mostly in those moments in the middle of the night I see the truth in his love. I feel the ancient honor of motherhood radiate through me. The knowing that this tiny little creature in his most raw and spectacular form knows so little of the world around us, but knows with the utmost certainty that I am warm, and soft and will love him fully. So in the middle of the night, while his conscious mind rest, his sweet subconscious reaches for me, and it is indisputably the greatest gift I could ever accept.

*As a side note, I am also perfectly equally ready to end co sleeping and stop begging for the edge of my bed to not give out and leave me on the floor ....... The duality of man is real.*