Tyler is in a new phase of this year of adjustments: fear strikes him in the middle of the night and he flees to my bedroom.
This is okay with me for now. As with all compromises with my children, I'm okay as long as it's a choice I'm allowing - not something that is now out of my control, something to which I must give in. As soon as it appears that we step over the line from concession to demand, well, he and I will need a new plan.
But on occasion, currently regular occasion, it's nice to sleep next to my little boy, to listen to his breathing, to see the lines I remember of his baby face that only emerge when he's deeply asleep.
And it's nice to share the bed. Mostly. Sometimes it gets a little lumpy and crowded with pointy elbows, bony knees, and wandering feet.
"Tyler, could you lay on your side when you sleep with me? Last night you slept with your feet against my back all night long."
"But Mommy, my feet were afraid. They needed to know where you were."
My poetic child.
Somehow this explanation softens me.