Your eyes were big and you reached out to me and asked me to climb into your bed next to you. I snuggled in close and you pulled my arm around you, entwining our fingers. I had a hundred things to do. Literally. Well...at least twenty...maybe ten...but I tried to push them from my mind and enjoy this small gift you'd just handed me.
These gifts from you are coming less often these days. Your seven-year-old self has started taking note of how other kids act. You've started spending more time on chapter books and ipads and sports scores than asking questions of me and seeking out my company.
I fought off the hot flashes (and your giggled, "You're HOT mom!") and tingly fingers that come from me holding them still (dang hormone therapy!) and instead I thought of the brown-eyed boy that has started dancing away from me when I lean in for a hug at the bus-stop, a sly smile on his face.
It makes me treasure these moments more, these pauses in the every-day life that you give me.
I lay, wrapped around you, until your breathing slowed and your fingers twitched. And then I lay a moment more, remembering the sweet brown-eyed baby who would throw his head back in laughter,
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who would reach out to me and confidently cling to my arms when others were around,
who made me laugh,
and who continues to make me laugh.
And I thank God for every moment of tingly fingers and hot flashes that I have. For every sly smile. For every bedtime cuddle.
I love the wind.
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