nighttime musing

A little while ago, Andrew cried out something unintelligible from his bed, and I slipped into the cool, dark quiet of his room to soothe him. He wouldn't speak to me, but after a short minute of back-rubbing, he lay down, thumb firmly in mouth. I stroked his damp head and pressed kisses against his cheek and forehead. Soon he resumed the deep breaths that meant sleep had returned. Still I sat next to his bed, watching him, thinking about how he will be turning three in just a few short days and itching to pull him into my arms. Thinking about all the hours I have spent holding him while he slept and wondering how many such hours there will be to come. Maybe it was lingering melancholy from the sad book I had left in the living room, but I actually shed a few tears.

Three years old. Undeniably no longer a baby. Not even a toddler, I suppose, but a preschooler. A typical boy who loves trucks and dinosaurs and often wishes to have long conversations about poop, who excitedly seeks out sand for digging and puddles for splashing, who begs to "look at the buttons" in the front seat every time we're in the car, and who is obsessed with playing Angry Birds (oops). Who still loves his monkey and sucks his thumb and often slips into bed with Mommy and Daddy in the middle of the night. Who occasionally says "I love you" and offers up hugs and kisses. My sweet, sweet boy.