I don’t get to see him sleeping very often now. When he was a baby it seemed he slept all the time. On me, on his dad, in the car, on our bed. I was enamored of his newness, how delicate he was, the softness of his skin. I loved how he suckled in his sleep, his little mouth moving back and forth.
Now he’s a boy. His arms and legs are covered with bruises. He runs and jumps and crashes all day and his sleep is deep and heavy. He flails in his sleep and it doesn’t wake him.
Yet there is still a delicacy. The curl in his hair, the eyelashes on his cheek, his rosebud mouth. At night when I check on him, his hair is luminous in the darkness and it makes me ache with love for him. I wonder if I gave birth to an angel, something other-worldly. Something that is pure goodness.