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The Space Between Us
My 21-month-old son curls up next to me. He makes sure his tiny bottom is touching my belly and, even though I am behind him, he awkwardly pushes his fingertips onto my lips. Once in a while, he reaches for my hair and holds onto it until his eyes flutter. Then, he drifts off to sleep.
Close for Comfort
This is our nightly ritual. There is no space between us until I feel confident enough that he will stay asleep and I lift him up to place him into his crib. Often, he looks at me but for a moment. I see his feeling of betrayal and kiss him on the forehead with a whisper of, “I love you.” Many times he leaves one eye slightly open. He’s my suspicious one.
His brother, on the other hand, never slept peacefully. As a baby, he preferred to scream into the wind like a howling wolf. One night, when he was about a year old, I picked him up from his crib and put him on my chest to try and tame the beast.
He threw his arms around my neck. In a moment, he grew silent, his eyes closed tightly shut, and he began to dream. I tried my hardest to stay awake with the sounds of MSNBC playing in the background. Three hours later, I woke up with him still on my chest and “Morning Joe” blathering on about one election or another.
From then on, he slept next to me. Even as a nearly 10 year old boy, he prefers to…
