The tale of the first child 

I’ll never let my kids sleep with me, I said. Co-sleeping is for carnies. Kids need to know their place. I have standards. Children of mine will never own me, I said loudly, fist triumphantly held high above my youthful and childless body and spirit. 
And then I had two boys and I became a hypocrite to the fullest extent and we all laughed and laughed at the notion that we have the ability to put common sense over matters of the heart when it comes to our children. 

I may talk more about the dramatics and antics of his brother but this child, my first one, is the first and last thing I’ll ever love in this very special way. He is my sweetheart, my love, my sunshine, the one who turned my heart from black to less blackish. 


He’s everything I never deserved and everything I never knew I wanted in life. It’s odd to tell the world you have a three year old as a best friend, but he’s all mine, and he’s the best I could ever dream of. 

He loves naps and cookies and fuzzy pajamas, men who drive big trucks and big women who scoop ice cream. He laughs loudly and he kisses wet and he looks me in the eye when he’s serious and sorry or sad or excited. He hates showers and deadlines and pants and being told what to do. He’s the very, very best of me and he’s everything I will never be. 
I’d spend a million more days never getting sleep to be close enough to be able to touch within an arms reach, and to hear him breathe (loudly, very loudly like his father) for the rest of my life. 

But really, this picture is proof  why I never sleep. And you know what? I’ll sleep when I’m dead,because from where I lay, sleepless nights are ok by me.

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