bringing dinner back

“The only thing worth stealing is a kiss from a sleeping child.” — Joe Houldsworth

Noah sleeping, 1997

We have a tradition in our home that started from the family bed of my children’s babyhood. We played musical beds for years before finally settling in on the norm, which is generally us in our room and the boys sleeping in the same room (with the occasional nightmare sending Sawyer frantically down the stairs).

When they were younger — out of our bed but not completely happy to be in their own — I laid down with them every night to go to sleep. It whipped me. My mind raced with all the things I needed to be doing — all seeming infinitely more important than lying in bed with two squirmy boys. I eventually negotiated out of that arrangement by saying I would lie down with them every Sunday night. Who knew so many years later, at ages 12 and 9, this would still be a sacred event in our home. They ask every Sunday night. If I have something else I need to do, they’re OK with it. But they’re asking again on Monday.

Boys sleeping, 2001

Once I settle in, ignoring my to-do list, it is one of my favorite times of the week. They are safe, sweet, snuggly, and clean (certainly not their normal state these days) … like larger versions of their baby selves. For a few brief moments, I can stop thinking about protecting them from the big bad world and just enjoy the prayers and whispers.

Our dinner table has a similar feel. Not as sweet nor as snuggly (although they do still like to sit in our laps when we’re done eating) but just as safe, just as sacred. The point in your child’s life where others have more influence over them than you do — or at least it feels that way — is scary for a parent. And it seems to happen instantaneously. One minute, they look to you before making every move. The next, they make every move, hoping you aren’t looking. It is a separation that must occur. In 5 1/2 years, Noah will be somewhat out on his own. Our job is to make sure he can handle that. Logically, I get this. Emotionally, not so much. So these moments where it is just the four of us, three or even two of us — with no intrusion from anybody or anything — are rare and radically important for my psyche. And, I believe, for theirs.

Boys sleeping, 2010

As I laid with them this evening — snuggling with one boy who can barely stand the sound of my voice much of the day and another who spends his days so on the move he hardly has time for a quick hug — I remembered how fleeting this time is. Even though I only do this once a week now, sometimes it still feels like a chore, interrupting work, a TV show I want to watch, a book I want to read. But I know someday they won’t ask. I never know when the last time will be. So there I am, every Sunday, knowing someday I will strain to remember that clean, snuggly boy smell and feel.