tiny, sweaty palms cup face
imprison my pores
I have just spent the last hour and half trying to help the wee one fall asleep. He is perfectly capable of falling asleep on his own. His daddy only has to give him a sideways look and the wee one drifts peacefully off to sleep.
Not with me, though.
With me, I am imprisoned by a sweaty head on top of my own head; a small hand manipulating my earlobe as if it were a worry bead; a foot cast sidelong over my belly; an arm draped over my ear.
I get baleful stares and weeping.
And then, when he finally drifts off to sleep, I get an hour to myself before I, too, have to go to bed. Which is an air mattress right next to his spiderman air mattress. So he wakes up and snuggles into bed with me. And that’s nice for about ten minutes. Then the kicking starts. And the earlobe pulling. And the perpendicular sleeping. And then it’s 7 am and he’s awake – ready for another day of jumping off walls and singing the Star Wars song and asking me for the EIGHT FRILLIONTH TIME if Boba Fett is a bad guy.
I think. It’s time. To go home.
Or maybe the wee one can go home and I can stay here all alone. In solitude. With only my ipod, an Ikea catalog, and a box of Little Debbie brownies to keep me company.