It was one of those rare weekend mornings. When you wake up energized, ready to conquer the world (a.k.a. the bathroom and kitchen) with all purpose cleaner while surprising your kids with a legit breakfast. Waking them up with the aroma of bacon and the crackle of potatoes frying in the pan.
As I was preparing to throw on some music and rock out to some light cleaning with my coffee, I decided to take a moment to go check on my still sleeping boys.
I padded to our 9 year old’s room, seeing him sleeping peacefully and, of course, partially uncovered. I pulled the corners of his blanket a little tighter around his frame and he burrowed underneath and rolled slightly to nestle in for another hour of sleep. Sweet boy.
When I crept across the hall to our 7 year old’s room I entered and stopped at the side of his bed. I watched his chest rising and falling, his sweet mouth opened slightly, his lips squished against his pillow as he slumbered. I reached out to gently caress his cheek with the back of my finger.
You see, it was World War III last night getting him ready for bed. He didn’t want to brush his teeth and he didn’t want to put on his jammies. By the end of our nightly routine we were both so aggravated with each other and cranky. I had kissed him goodnight (while he tried to stop me) and I closed his door feeling like a failure, ready to start fresh in the morning.
Now here I am, with bacon and potatoes frying on the stove, gazing down at his precious sleeping face. My stubborn, strong willed, too-smart-for-his-own-good son that is just like me. I leaned down to kiss his brow and he reached out and grasped my wrist and asked me to lay with him.
Bacon and potatoes fried, and I climbed in bed with my boy. ♥
As I snuggled into his twin sized bed, I pulled his not-so-little-anymore body against mine to spoon, my arms encircling his shoulders as I nuzzled against his neck, breathing in the sweet scent of little boy and slumber.
His soft little hand wrapped around my forearm and large, silent tears began to fall down my face, getting tangled in my hairline and seeping into his pillowcase. My sweet boy.
This boy is just like me, and I do not remember the last time he asked me to lay with him in his bed. To cuddle his little face against my chest so that I may run my hands over the silky softness of his thick blonde hair. It will turn brown someday, and it will probably thin and fall away, but for now, he is still my little boy. And he wanted to cuddle with his mommy.
“Let the bacon fry” I thought. “Let the potatoes burn and the eggs can wait.”
It was in that moment that I heard Paul padding down the hallway toward us. He had tended to our breakfast, and was making his way to lay with our older boy.
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