I watch my child sleeping. He looks so fragile, so small in that big bed. I look around his room and see where the mobile used to hang over his crib. I smile at the robot stickers that surround the framed picture of his first footprint. The rocker where I fed him night after night has been removed to make room for dragon toys, early reader books and a baseball trophy. To me he will always be my baby boy, my precious gift that I never thought I would receive. There are no signs of the time he spent in the NICU, not in him anyway. In my heart and mind, those days are never far away. I do my best to push them aside and see the strong boy I have in front of me now.
I listen to my child sleeping. His rhythmic breathing is music to my ears. The soft snoring that comes from his pillow now and then is a blessing. “His lungs healed well” I think to myself. He is healthy, yet I listen intently every night to hear the breath go in and out of him, as if he is breathing life into me.
I move close and touch my child as he is sleeping. The moment my hand touches his shoulder it is as if an energy fills me, his energy. I want to lie down next to him and hold him in my arms hour after hour. Like a magnet my hands are drawn to him, struggling to pull away. I pull the sheet up, kiss his temple and smile.
I stand in the doorway as my child sleeps. It’s late. I have no desire to leave. I could stand here and watch him all night. Each sigh and wiggle is like a symphony of blessings. It’s the same, night after night. Yet, I never tire of the routine. In the deepest part of my heart you will find my sleeping child.
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