Turns out, there is a disconnect between the imagined sweetness of sleeping with your darling three-year old boy and the reality of sleeping with your real three-year old boy.

Recently, while visiting my in-laws, I came upstairs to see the lovemush that comes from witnessing my husband and my son, snuggled:

And so of course, I imagine sweet, sweet sleeping with my husband and our son, between us. After all, they were so comfy looking. So perfect, and amazing. We'd all dream together, I thought.

But instead, I had my son's head smushing my boobs and I couldn't breathe:

And him hugging my neck, saying "Get closer, Mommy, I'm scared." And so, I did, because, love. And not breathing, and smushable boobs sacrificed for the sleep of a three-year-old:

Him laughing, while my husband slept, and I didn't. Our son, sitting on my head, laughing, while I just wanted him to sleep for f*** sake:

Yes, he is SITTING ON MY HEAD.

And, finally, he slept. Dreamed the dreams of three-year-olds. Full of imagined peace and french fries. Whatever, his foot, in my face…

His feet, in my nose. And yet, I love the little guy, more than anything ever. Foot in my face and in my ear, I'm thankful that he sleeps.

Finally. For eff’s sake.