Hands

A few nights ago, Miles asked me to come lie down beside him and snuggle him while he fell asleep.  I really wanted to sit down on the sofa, in silence, with some mindless Facebook scrolling, but I didn't.  Instead, I crawled into his bed, and we lay side by side on our backs looking at the crooked wooden slats on the underside of the top bunk.  

After a minute, he raised his little hands into the air and made a letter "M" shape with his thumbs and forefingers.  

"Look what I made, Mommy," he whispered.  

"I see it, buddy - look what I can make," I whispered back, as I made a triangle shape with my fingers.

"Cool.  I can make a diamond...watch this..."

We made dozens whispered shapes and letters in the quiet of his room, our hands lit up perfectly by the light of the little lamp streaming in through his doorway from the hall.

About ten minutes into our little game of hand charades, I could see his eyelids getting heavy.  He rolled over toward me and his fat, warm cheek squished against mine.  He had just had a bath, so he was still dewy, and his hair was still wet.  We keep our house pretty warm in the summer months, so he almost felt sweaty the way babies do when their body hasn't quite learned how to regulate its temperature.  

He kicked the covers off to stay cool, popped his thumb into his mouth, and I combed his still-damp hair with my fingers.  I kissed his forehead and then leaned back to blow cool air onto his hair in the hopes that it would help him get to sleep, and he, thumb in mouth, smiled up at me and said, "I love it when you do that, Mommy."

His eyelids finally became too heavy to lift again, and as I lay there watching his sweet round face, the only thought in my mind was:  "Thank you, God, for giving me the good sense to be right here, right now, instead of sitting in the living room scrolling through social media."