Usually, I barely bat an eye when I hear someone up in the middle of the night. That's because it's typically Mark or me, bowing to aging bodies in need of release. Whoopee, I mumble, rolling over into my school dreams again.
Last night, though, it was a door across the hall that groaned, a pair of young feet shuffling along the wood floors. And that caught my attention. Surely, by now, my family knows that I'm the one who is supposed to be afflicted. Frankly, it bugs me when someone else comes padding into my territory.
Ah, but when it's one of my kids, . . . something clicks inside me and I feel nothing but warmth and compassion, even in the middle of the night.
And so, 3 a.m. be damned. I'm getting up to tend to my child, to lay my long body around hers, my right hand methodically combing her hair.
I am not terribly maternal by practice, which is why I am grateful for the ancient murmurings within me, the old stories bubbling up from instinct. In these moments, I am able to offer a mother's comfort when nothing else will do. And there is no place I'd rather be at a time like that, than sleepily present at my child's side.
Eventually, all of us were up, so it seemed only natural to do something we'd never done before, to invite Allison to come into our room and lay with us. As someone whose own few memories of my parents' bed are strong and sweet, I wasn't surprised when Allison slipped on top of our sheets and joined us.
Soon, tucked safely between her parents, with Finn at her feet, her breath grew long and low, rhythmic and comforting, and we all drifted back to our dreams.
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