Sleep Fighter Part II

THE LITTLE GUY stumbles out of the bedroom, hair curled up in every direction, hands rubbing the corners of his eyes, looking for something. He heads for his toys, maybe glances up at the television. He lets out a halfhearted cry. If he was an old man, he’d check his wristwatch. It’s past bed time but he likes to fight the Zs. At the same time, he wants to be put to bed and so he finally accepts his fate, crawls on me, lies on my chest as I rest on the couch.

He looks up at me before he dozes off as if to double check I’m there. Or is it that he thinks I have a magical power that lulls him to dreams. Maybe he sees me as reinforcements in his epic battle with those heavy eyelids and he can now surrender with grace. A few wiggles and a couple moans before the snoring kicks in. Out.

This is when my therapy starts. To watch him breathe peacefully, slobber pooling on my shirt, is heavenly. I’m reminded of love and sacrifice with every breath he takes. It soothes me, makes me forget my pain, my worries. Nothing can compare to this connection. I’m sorry but nothing. And I hope you understand. Then again, I’m quite sure you won’t because although many of us have children and can relate, the actual bond we share with them is unique like a finger print. No two are alike. It belongs to us and only us and because of this we are special.

There is a line in the poem “Our Deepest Fear” by Marianne Williamson in which she writes, “We are all meant to shine, as children do.” Ezra shines so bright that my heart squints; his light emanates through the walls of our apartment, down the stairs and into the courtyard, sliding into the garage where it illuminates even the dampest of places.

So much innocence deserves leniency but I scold him for being a brat sometimes. Discipline is a tight-rope walk, 20 stories high with the wind blowing. I seek delicate balance not always finding it. I catch myself as to not hoist the frustrations of my world on him. He has other challenges to tackle. His repeated ear infections are one. What "Cat in At" book he should read is another. Counting to “Eeefteen” is one more.

Ezra is almost two years old and I still can't believe it sometimes. Then I see my wife stuff bag after bag of clothes that no longer fit; each shirt or pajamas representing an hour, a day, a week, months, years. The little time I can grasp is fleeting, disappearing faster than milk from my refrigerator. It's all he ever wants at night, his Lechita, gets those saliva glands nice and replenished. And that's OK, I won’t ever complain. If you're tired and sleepy, lay on my chest and drool away son, I have plenty of T-shirts.