Demitri asked me to lie down with him tonight. This is not new or unusual. This is not a boy who is afraid of the dark or was upset in any visible way, but rather a boy of seven who is still so sweet and precious it pains my heart to look at him for too long. A boy who wants to be so grown and yet is still so baby-like that to look at him is to smirk, grin, or full-on smile like a loon. A huge, toothy smile.
Complete and utter amazement, that boy.
What began as a weekend sleepover, to which I am almost always asked to sleep with one, two, or all three of my sons, has become an almost nightly question. I confess, I love it.
So tonight I lay with him, for just a few minutes as it is not a sleepover night, and I listened to him breath.
There is a rhythmic melody which plays out with the breathing in and breathing out of a child. It is relaxing, like a lullaby, and calming like a salve. It is deep breathing, a child well on his way to Wonderland, and the accompanying moments which follow are a circus and a symphony at once.
You may catch a word mumbled through the space of Dreamland and reality. A word or phrase which the child will not remember the next morning, but you will ponder upon, asking yourself if it was a good word or not, a good dream or not, a good sleep, or not.
Clues can be found. A giggle in one's sleep is always a treasure to be heard. It requires little of the audience but a smile one cannot stop and perhaps a giggle of your own in response to the first, which will come from your belly, from your heart, and from your soul.
A fart released from the sleeper will demand another set of giggles, so innocent, with nothing to hide, the fart one offers in his sleep.
And the arms. A tell-tale sign of the peace found behind one's eyes. I particularly enjoy the hands-behind-the-head with arms out and bent at the elbows, like a child enjoying the sun while relaxing at the beach in his dreams. This pose seems so grown to me, although I have witnessed it in all three of my sons from the time of babyhood.
There is the breath, which begins with the baby as sweet and delicate, and later evolves from the smell to just the feel. A child's cool breath against your cheek or your arm. How it feels like a small wind choosing carefully its location to bless, over and over, with each exhale. A chilly, relaxing, grateful blowing.
Long sighs, also, are so simple and yet so magical. A reminder of rest and peace and a contentment found within the resting. An audible reminder to anyone who hears that this one is in a blissful state. La-La-Land has come and the sleeper has fallen gently into her arms.
So it is here, in the moments before I, too, fall asleep, which I enjoy without end. Running my fingers through the wild hair of my son, drawing pictures on his back with my fingers, giving him chills which help him to sleep, and kissing his nose once, twice, three times, without him pushing me away.
Given the opportunity-and there is always opportunity!-whispering into my son's ear "You are so wonderful. I am glad you are mine. You're the best Zeplin/Demetri/Thatcher ever- the kid of my dreams."
I will ask my sleeping child, "Do you know that? Do you know you are the best?" Occasionally, somewhere between consciousness, he will smile, shake his head "yes" or even mumble, "I know."
I drape my arm over him, enveloping him in a gentle and snug half-hug, letting him know he is safe and he is loved. And in these moments, I am reminded without doubt that I am blessed.
It feels like a sad, rotten, completely wrong thing to say. And words have meaning, so admitting these words aloud felt like some painful landmark, one I could not unsee, or unsay.
This confession of mine is notable because A) I first shared that beautiful poem above about how crazy I am over them- when they sleep.
And, B) this all led up to a conversation I had with Marmie tonight during which she offered SO MANY ONE LINERS I darn-near interrupted her every other moment with a "Oh, that was good", and a "Dang! That is powerful".
Tonight my Marmie was full of wisdom.
This isn't her normal. She's smart and purposes to speak life over you when you speak with her, but she's also the long-winded, slow to come around on her thoughts and feelings type. The one who says the same things over and over in four different ways because she isn't quite certain how to articulate what she really wants to say.
So it must be said that when her "type" drops a zinger, you stop and you listen.
I was having a moment, offering a scenario in which I felt weak, and, almost like a rebuke and a rebuttal combined she interrupted my reverie with this:
You can have pity or you can have power, Shannon.
You cannot have them both.
What was THAT?
Where did that come from?
And her timing? Spot. Freaking. On.
We talked further and before long she dropped another card with this one:
Shannon, don't dance with him. Don't give him (the devil) the satisfaction.
Make him mad in your refusal.
Don't dance with that fool.
What.
In.
The.
Actual.
World?
She was on fire and I did not want to stop her and ask if these are Marmie-Originals or if she read them in one of her Joyce Meyer or Joel Osteen books, I just took them from her and made a mental note to remember them. (Honestly, between Demitri's sweet sleep and all these words of eye-widening wonder, there was no way I could keep myself from compiling this post. If for no other reason, and no other person, I know that I will need these reminders someday. That there is life in the simple and the profound, and that I don't want to forget any of it.)
-always, gomommyblogger
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