All in good time

I am just barely starting to fall asleep when I hear the familiar click of the door knob down the hall, followed first by the sound of electronic rain and second by the sound of small feet running quickly in the dark.  Within moments you are on the bed, making your way to the top and then the middle, where you are met with loving arms and warm covers.  We take our places seamlessly, each nestling into a semi-fetal position, face-to-face, your small warm feet resting on the tops of my thighs.  When he is not working, your father curls around your back and the three of us form a perfect little puzzle.  I do not mind that I must pull myself away from the warmth of my husband's arms and move to the cold outskirts of the king-sized bed in order to make room for you.  I do not mind that you sleep no more than 4 or 5 hours in your own bed before joining us in ours.  Nor do I mind the occasional knocking of heads, the accidental meetings between foot and eye socket, the mid-sleep slaps across the face.  These small inconveniences are more than made up for by the sound of your breath, the smell of your hair, the soft warmth of your skin, and the glimpses into your dreams I am afforded by having you near enough to hear you talk in your sleep.  Why, just the other night, you actually smiled and giggled while sound asleep and I nearly cried, the sound was so lovely and unexpected.

I've heard the admonitions, the concerns that "he will never be able to sleep on his own," the recommendations for getting you to sleep in your own bed in order to "foster your independence."  I simply cannot listen.  We hurry through so many things in this life as it is.  Must I rush this along as well?  I refuse.  These moments with you are too precious, fleeting; I will not wish them away.  So, join us in sleep, my son, for as long as you feel the need; we are here.  And when you are ready to leave, we will let go willingly, knowing that the time is right.