I put Buddy down for bed. He went down easily, at first tonight, quietly chatting to himself. But after awhile his crying picked up to the point of angry. I finally went in to get him, to make sure his diaper wasn't dirty (as is often the trend when he cries so long at nap time), but it wasn't.
So I scooped him and snuggled him on the couch in our dimily lit living room while the click-click-click of Hubby's typing played against the tap-tap-tap of the rain.
Buddy boy was in my arms for just a few minutes when I felt him give in to the exhaustion. Just release himself, trusting that my arms would hold him as he went to sleep in peace. There's a part of me that longs for that childlike trust.
The sweet sleepy breaths began, his head tilted back, and his mouth partially open. He looks like his Babushka sleeping.
I lean down to kiss his forehead.
Thank You, Jesus. Thank You, Jesus. Thank You, Jesus.
How often I forget to say that these days. I said it all the time in our NICU weeks and then the weeks that followed.
But tonight my gratitude for this gift overwhelmed me. Not the gift of sleep, but the gift I sometimes call Buddy. Bubby. Buggaboo. Booboo. Bubs.