After a long busy weekend in which we celebrated our nation's birth and independence from England 233 years ago, and a few longs drives later, my youngest son was out. I mean, out like passed out. I plucked him from his carseat and he flopped over onto my shoulder, draping his arms around my neck and slept on.
I carried him into the house to his bedroom where I momentarily stood over his crib with his limp, sleep-laden body in my arms when I decided not to put him to bed. I gingerly tip-toed to the sky chair hanging in the corner and lowered us slowly into the hammock-like seat.
The rest of the family busily getting ready for bed, I sat. The moments when this baby has slept in my arms are few and far between and tonight I needed to take advantage of the opportunity to feel the weight of a sleeping babe in my arms. Time flies and this little one is already older and bigger than I dreamed he could be this soon.
For no less than 20 minutes I held him. I listened to his slow, steady breathing. I felt the warmth of his little body. I breathed deeply his scent. I gazed at him in the light of the moon that fell softly over his face. Drink deeply Mother Me, for he will only be a little boy for another blink, and then a few more blinks before he is a grown man off to spread his wings.
I love you in the morning
and in the afternoon,
I love you in the evening
underneath the moon.
I love YOU!