We lie in bed, cozy under the covers, as the light outside slowly fades. We read stories, talking about the pictures and why things work the way they do.
“How does that move?”
“Where did they get the wheels from?”
“What makes it go?”
After each question, a pause, and an “oh.” He’s listening.
He rubs his eyes, then my wrist. Still his safe spot.
“I want to hug you for finding my lizard,” he says, and he does.
“I love you, mummy.” His voice is soft and small. “You’re the best.”
When the stories are done and the lights are out, he is quiet but my mind is not. I think about what I did today.
Is that one little thing important?
Five years from now, will what I spent my time doing make a difference?
50 years from now, will it even matter that I was there?
These are the things I think about in the softening light.
My family has been in town and Connor has been sleeping in our bed for the last week. While it’s not something we would choose on a permanent basis (though more often than not someone ends up in his bed with him for at least part of the night) I do enjoy it. I love the little hand that reaches for mine in the night, his gentle heat and that barely-there-but-still-audible breath punctuated by small sighs.
It makes me think a lot about what’s important.