Every night Margot falls asleep in our room, Ruby in the girls’ room across the hall. When Andy and I go to bed we move our heavy sleeper into the room with the light sleeper, quiet challenged by the tiny village of blocks and books that cause open-mouthed but silent yelps. Margot rolls into her bed without notice, Ruby stirs as we take three giant steps out the door and exhale.
In the middle of the night, Margot sleepily floats across the hall and into her dad’s arms. This is a new habit I love. She doesn’t say a word and he doesn’t wake up. I listen to them lock into place without even breaking their breathing rhythm.
Ruby wakes early. Andy fetches her and brings her to our bed where she nurses back to sleep, curled into my body. For a hot second, I remember what it felt like to be pregnant.
The four of us lay like spoons in our bed in our room in our home in the stillness before we begin a new day. I feel peaceful, warm, comfortable, confident and really happy.
Margot added to her nest. It’s our family. Andy and Ruby are the wooden, blue people. Margot is the bird and I. I am the elmo eyeballs.
“Locked into place.”
Our kids spent the three weeks of our vacation sleeping in the same bed every night and for naps.
Sweetest thing. (Except when Col would start each night off with “Rose, get your stinky but out of my face.” Two minutes later: snooortysnooooze).