It is the middle of the night. I am in a dark hotel room, my babies asleep within arms reach. I am listening to them breathing. I am listening, and I am loving the sound, the reassuring rhythm of the sound of their sleep. They will wake – sooner, later – and I will wrap my arms around them and kiss them and hush them and we will snuggle together and they will sleep and I will lay awake and we will pass the night and we will be happy, all of us. Even me, in my tiredness. I will be happy. I am happy
Edited, late Sunday: from the vantage point of the day following an entirely sleepless night, this sentence – “and they will sleep and I will lay awake and we will pass the night and we will be happy, all of us. Even me, in my tiredness. I will be happy” – reads like 50% nonsense, 30% delusion and maybe 20% rambling sentimentalism. The sentimentalism, fine – I do adore my children and I do consider myself happy and I am so glad to have taken a technology break this weekend – but really. Exhaustion sucks rancid cow poo, and I was not – I repeat, NOT – happy to get only five minutes’ sleep last night. They are my greatest joy, yes, but they just might be trying to kill me, too.