There is a big thunderstorm over our heads. It is Sunday not-quite morning, the three of us curled up safe and warm beneath the sheets. You sleep between your father and I, your softness outstretched like a starfish to reach us both. But, most often, you are your father’s at night. You cling to him, gently (sometimes not so gently) moving into his space. Though I envy those sweet snuggles some days, I know they have always belonged to him. When you were in my womb, you always wiggled your unfinished form towards him when we would lie down to sleep. And, in any case, you get me all day, and I know your heart wants that safe Papa space when you rest.
Night has become the time when I regain my personhood, having been touched all day by your impossibly sweet, clumsy little hands. Your father gets up with you when he needs to, though it’s not often that you keep us up at night very much anymore. And I lie next to you, sleeping on my belly, clutching my pillow, on my less-than-half of the bed. My space. Me. Recharging so that when your Papa leaves for work in the morning, my skin doesn’t ache from being attached too long.
Tonight is the full moon, and you have felt its restlessness, a tiny wave of that energy your mother has always felt coming back to kiss her shore. That is how the moon, the ocean of light, loves us. You decided to come into the world on a full moon night. It was a rare ‘pink moon’ that night. Maybe that is why you always try to stay up all night when the moon gets full. That restlessness that brought you out into the world makes its way back to you again and again. And as the sun struggles to rise behind the thunderstorm, you have been lulled back into the arms of sleep, occasionally moving an arm or a leg in drowsy protest, carving out the safe space between your parents.
I love you, moon baby.