Posted by on Dec 9, 2010 in Family, Kids, Mom stuff, Parenting, Personal, Teens & Tweens | 37 comments

 

Young boys should never be sent to bed…
they always wake up a day older.

J.M. Barrie in Finding Neverland

 

With fairy steps I stealth into his room and slip under layers of covers to envelop his body.  We're spoons.  

He's a cozy oven and though barely awake he senses my presence and rolls to his stomach.  It's an invitation I cannot refuse.

I begin rubbing his back and remember when one hand covered its entirety; now, it would take one for each year he's lived, 13.  He lies as still as stone, afraid if he moves it'll signal the end of this soundless wake-up call.  He doesn't realize my secret:  this is a forever moment for me, too.    

I smooth his skin like fresh sheets on a bed and thoughtfully consider his shape and size.  He's growing.  "You don't know how good this feels," he murmers softly, but I do and I'm richly compensated by his appreciation and approval.  I whisper "Guess what I'm drawing," and trace a letter the size of his back.  He says "I."  I begin the second letter but before I can finish he anticipates "L-O-V-E-Y-O-U."  I chuckle and declare "You're a mind reader!"  

I steal one more minute, maybe two and then I kiss the back of his hair.  It smells of sleep and boy.

My feet slide to the floor and reluctantly my body follows.  Silence breaks as I remember why I'm there–"Time to get up."  

My words pierce the air and he doesn't want to hear them any more than I want to speak them.  

In a very small sense, I mourn this day he unknowingly celebrates–my baby is one day older and I'm 24 hours closer to an empty nest.  

Sometimes, but only in a twinkling, Neverland dwells in a mother's soul.

 

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