Last night around eleven, my son woke up crying. Not the “two seconds of crying followed by sleeping” crying or the “OMG PAIN” crying but this soft, absolutely heartbroken sound. Of course I ran in there like the house was on fire.
He sat up and told me, “I’m scared’a Sarge!”
(Sarge is one of the characters from Cars. He’s not scared of Sarge under normal circumstances.)
“He wanted’a play with me!”
I scooped him up and he started snotting and tearing down my shoulder and back. (Did I mention he has the most discharge-tastic cold I’ve ever witnessed?)
“I guess I wanna to go a rocking chair,” he sniffled, putting his head down and cudding his cold puppy nose into my neck.
(He’s also currently very fond of saying “I think I…” and “I guess I…” and my favorite, “I think I guess I wanna…”)
It was awkward rocking him, his legs straddling the top of my belly. But he didn’t seem to mind, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. These days, he’s more squirmy and independent than ever. I get more cuddling and smooches than anyone else does, but it’s nothing like cradling an infant. He’s growing up. I secretly thanked the bad dream that gave me a few minutes of grateful, quiet cuddling.
In my belly, the baby squirmed against him. I’m holding my boys, I thought. And that was an indescribably warm feeling.
You’ll always be my baby.
Once that kid’s in a real bed I think he’s going to find a stray mama snuggled up against him once in a while.
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