“He still doesn’t sleep through the night?” is what she said to me, and I laugh. He does not, this 2-year-old diplomat.
He cries out, asks to be rocked, asks to be held, asks for a bottle, asks for a diaper change. While the world sleeps, he lures me into something different. I can’t accurately call it lovely, but I also can. There is quiet and dark, and once settled in the rocking chair, the memories arrive: eating sheet cake in Haiti, snow football on the quad, borrowing contraband crimpers from older sisters.
He drifts to sleep; I drift to thought. We rock and rock and rock, and I stay until I know he’s deep in rest.
Until I am, too.