A Letter to my Son

It is bedtime.

You dive onto your bed, somersaulting to your pillow with all the energy your two and a half year old self can muster.

You lay your head down, making it seem like it is going to be an easy night.

You do that every night, but it is never easy.

You toss and you turn.

You pull at toes confined in footie pajamas and I wonder if you will someday be like your mother, untucking the sheets at the bottom of the bed because your feet can't be imprisoned.

You toss and you turn.

You point at the particle board above our heads separating us from your big brother and I wonder if you see things in the shapes and colors as though we are looking at clouds.

You toss and you turn.

Because you have yet to find your words, you reach and find my hand instead, pulling it to your back, making it known it needs to be scratched.

I scratch and rub your back and I can feel you relax.

You roll over and I can see that each blink is longer than the last, but your eyelids are still not heavy enough. You stare off into space, while I rub a thumb over the smooth skin of your cheek.

I wonder what thoughts are keeping your eyes open tonight.

You toss and you turn.

Eventually I hear your breathing become deep and even.

You turn your back to me but throw one arm behind.

You reach for me, you lay your hand across my arm, and finally, you sleep.

And then e, I say a prayer that someday you would not have such a difficult time saying goodbye to today and welcoming tomorrow.