Nighttime Mother

Originally written in November 2009

She shuffles into the room
with sleepy eyes and a hacking cough. Without a word,
she climbs into our bed, around the dog, and flops
down between her father and me. On my other side
is the baby boy, stirring but drifting
back to sleep.

Her cough is keeping her
awake. She coughs so hard, she throws
up. Now, we are all awake.

We remove the pillow, do some basic
wiping up, make sure she doesn’t have any
on herself. Everyone settles back in. She
snuggles into my side, the baby nursing on my
other side. I bask in the feeling of being mother.

Later, the baby is fussy. I put him in the swing and get
back in bed. She climbs on top of me, laying her
entire body on mine, her head nestled under
my chin, her arms
drapped
on either side of me. Her legs
stretched
along mine.
I wrap my arms around her, and I think
how her entire body once fit
inside of mine.

We drift back to sleep,
entwined together,
mother and daughter.