12:43 a.m. You and me, Finn. We’re walking the halls, your blanket draped over my shoulder, your head cradled in my hand, binky in your mouth. Teething wakes your usually solid night and we walk. We wait for the Motrin to kick in and, for once, I don’t wish this middle-of-the-night-time away. I am not wondering when you will fall back asleep so I can return to the warmth of my bed. Instead, we crack the blinds to the front yard, the street light outside our big window shining in, a moon to you. “Ball,” you say. And I say yes. A ball. A light. A moon. You drop down onto my shoulder. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak, goes your pacifier. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Our train, the one we don’t even hear any more because we’re not listening, rattles past our house and we know it because there’s no distractions, no videos, no dinner to be made or baths to be had. Just you and I, lying on our worn green couch, the one your father and I got on sale the week before we got married, our first communal piece of furniture. The train rumbles past and your head is on my shoulder, your eyes closed, your weight on me, a warm compress on my heart. You are not often still these days, my sweet boy. My big, almost seventeen-month old, who runs and can now eat cereal and milk out of a bowl with a spoon. You are a blur of growth and new skills each day; holding you in my arms, you with no place you’d rather be, is rare. Watching you sleep only happens on the half-inch screen of my video monitor, all in black and white.
So tonight we lay, your head on my shoulder, you sleeping softly in full color, right in front of me and I do not wish this time away. I hold onto it with everything, and then I write, so that I remember.