Debunked

For years we stacked our children like cord wood. The oldest on top. The youngest tucked into the cave. This arrangement maximized the floor space in their room for clutter and clothes. Typical wake up routine was to stand on my tiptoes and try to kiss and snuggle the top bunker. The child who always pushes me away; avoiding my hugs and kisses. Then I would crawl into the lower dwelling spot and cozy the little one, who never pushes me away. Same for bad dreams, except I might climb up the ladder for better listening. In all the time we had bunks I never crawled up there myself; always afraid both bed and body would be visiting the lower lair under the weight of my expansive backside.

Over the past few weeks, we switched rooms, repainted, and debunked them. From that first night on, they've enjoyed having their own air space. They go to bed, read, and fall asleep without that tension of being on top of each other. But last night my eyes and my arms were opened.

Last night, homework that had to be finished today, kept the oldest up and in tears.

I asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

"No," came her tearful response, "I have to rewrite these four paragraphs."

I gave her a snack, and left her to finish. Which she did, beautifully.

Later when I went upstairs to do some stitching, she was still awake, and called to me. She couldn't sleep. No surprise really; there was no way her little body could have relaxed enough after her stint at the kitchen table.

"Move over," I said. And then I crawled into bed with her and gave her the cozy and started to rub her back.

"Can you rub under my shirt?"

In the darkness I smiled. She relaxed against me, and as her breathing evened out like small waves upon a lake, she asked, "Will you sleep with me?"

A gift well worth the lose of a bit of floor space.