Most evenings, he falls asleep like this, pressed up against me and on our bed. I’ve always relished my night space. Perhaps three under three left me desperate for physical and emotional freedom in the evenings. Things changed with the boy who sleeps.

My last little perhaps, my son with the special needs, my three year old who goes to public school three full days a week, all qualifiers for access to my once sovereign domain. My heart has changed with his birth and the unfolding of his needs and I find myself quite looking forward to lying beside him most evenings, his hot frame tucked into my shoulder and the minutes it takes for his breath to become even, the boy who sleeps.

He has a cozy nook all his own, once a storage space, turned into a nursery upon news of his arrival. There sits a crib, a crib that he protests vehemently. I like to think that he knows I will concede defeat and no matter how tired he is, he scrambles to stand up as quickly as he can upon being deposited, grapples with his blankie and says “out,” quite deliberately.

Lately though, he has been content to sleep in his sister’s room. She has always quite despised her twin beds, though now I overhear the subtle boasting to her brothers as she tells them to be quiet as they come up the stairs, since Amos is sleeping in HER room. Like anyone could possibly forget. He likes it though and she is tickled with his happiness to lie in the companion bed and not make a break for mommy. Without me now, he is the boy who sleeps.

Tonight I lay with him in his most favorite place, our bed, and I watched him as he slept. I thought of him and his babyhood which seems to be never ending though tonight, I embraced that often worrisome thought in a rather good way. I chased away thoughts of the future that beckon my attention in the quiet of the evenings. I sat quite still and was filled with love and thankfulness for the boy who sleeps.