All three of my kids ended up sleeping on the living room couch last night.

One by one,

each made their way out of [what is/should be] the sanctuary that is their very own cozy bedroom,

to find me —

their

tired,

needed

touched-out

mama

and the comfort of my

presence?

words?

smell?

willingness to wake from my slumber to aid them in a return to theirs?

It’s a thing we do sometimes,

play musical beds,

and, really,

there’s not a rhyme or reason as to when and why it happens.

But happens it does.

And deal with it I do.

I grumble about it, sure.

It frustrates me, of course.

Sometimes I even yell at them for it,

because, alas,

I
am
an
imperfect human.

But I can’t fault myself for that.

Anymore than I can fault them for loving me so much they can’t do as much as sleep without me.

Hehe.

You know,

it’s helpful sometimes

to take a step back

and remember who we are

stepping up

and showing up for

each
and
every
day,

and each and every

very
long
night.

Sometimes I think

“I’d go to the ends of the Earth for you kids but you need to let me get some damn sleep!”

But then I remember that

I can sleep when I’m dead.

I’m here to live.

I’m here to love.

And I’m here to live with those I love and love ‘em well.

And, occasionally,

well,

I must forgo precious sleep for precious children.

And I think I can do that.

Probably forever.