His hand touched my arm, and I startled.
My eyes opened.
I saw his face.
It was our first night in this place, and he had been up well past his bedtime.
I was certain we would all get to sleep a little later this morning.
But I was wrong.
He wove his way, through a dark he didn’t know, to find me.
Like he does nearly every morning.
I reached for him, my hands grabbing the flannel of his pajamas, as I lifted him into the middle of the bed.
He was clutching his lovey in his hands.
I hoped his exhaustion would win out, that this would be one of those rare mornings when he cuddled close, and I slept a little longer.
But it wasn’t.
“Mama,” he whispered, “I’m ready to get up.”
I know, baby.
He’s always ready to get up before I am.
I am just so tired.
So overwhelmingly tired.
I had been up with his sister not long ago.
I couldn’t see the time, but I knew it was early.
The sky outside was black.
I checked the clock on my phone.
At least it was after six.
Sometimes it’s not.
I found my glasses and pulled myself from the bed.
And reminded the little boy that his sister was asleep, that we had to be as quiet as possible. That we couldn’t wake her.
My boy, his father, and I stumbled toward the stairs and the main living area.
We fumbled for lights, unsure of their position in the unfamiliar rooms.
And then, through the dark, we saw it.
Linking up with the legendary Mama Kat for something that made me smile this week.