Sleeping In

Saturday morning. It's been a long week, full of caring for sick people, on top of the usual busyness, and I'm sleeping in. I hear a door open, and the 2 year old's feet making their way to our room. She skips across the room and crawls in bed, always on my side, even though Daddy's side is closer. She snuggles under the covers, moves the pillows to suit her, nestling into her spot, pressing her little body close to mine. Her sweet smell, her soft skin, her quiet breathing; I soak it all in. Her little hand reaches over to my face, and caresses me. My cheeks and chin, eyebrows and lips; she giggles softly, taking joy in the closeness. She and I have a whispered conversation about anything and nothing. It doesn't matter. She looks deeply in my eyes and makes a face at me, then closes her eyes and sighs. I roll over toward her Daddy, and my hand finds his immediately, and he holds on. And she is enclosed in a nest, between her Mommy and Daddy, enclosed in a picture of two people who love each other deeply and madly, whose love gave birth to her. What comfort and peace she feels! What security! The sun is coming up and trying to shine in our room, but I wait a while to listen to the peace and silence, the comfort and deep, abiding commitment. I wait a while to hear her soft breathing, and smell her sweet smell. I wait a while, not wanting the day to start, not wanting these days to pass; days of having a very small person who can't get enough of me, a small person comforted by my mere presence. What comfort and joy I feel! What security! And as the day beckons once again, and I cannot say 'no' to it any longer, I slip out of the nest, my feet hit the floor, and another day has begun.