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 —
and the comfort of my
willingness to wake from my slumber to aid them in a return to theirs?
It’s a thing we do sometimes,
play musical beds,
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,
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.
it’s helpful sometimes
to take a step back
and remember who we are
and showing up for
and each and every
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.
I must forgo precious sleep for precious children.
And I think I can do that.