I reached out my arms tonight to pick my up sleeping son. Instead of waking him to walk, I’d just carry him to bed. Like countless times before. His face, wearing the same expression he would make as a sleeping toddler, crinkled in misery, eyebrows knotted. He stretched and tried to turn over, away from the disturbance. “C’mon now. Let’s go to bed. Mommy’s got you,” I reassured, pulling him up into my arms.
He clung to me in a sleepy fog and almost wrapped himself around me. Like countless times before. But only almost. As quickly as he’d clung to me, he dropped his arms, lowered his feet and stood, pulling away. We both paused side by side in the quiet. And I remembered… he‘s as tall as me now. His body, close to mine in size. Somehow he had looked so tiny, so much younger than his 10 years, lying there fast asleep. How had I forgotten? I suppose midnight skews the sense of those who dare challenge it. “I’ve got your blanket, son. Let’s go to bed now,” I said, my arm around his shoulder as a steady guide.
When was the last time I actually carried him to bed? That memory escapes me.
I’ll never have the chance again.