In the small dark hours, our house is quiet — the noise of the day, of your brothers, of our life has fallen away into slumber.
You lie here, tucked between us in our bed, the bed where you were born. You own your space like an intrepid explorer staking claim — one hand outstretched in sleep to find your father, the other entwining fat fingers in my hair. Your breaths are deep and regular and slow.
You sleep like an intrepid explorer staking claim.
Soon you will begin to rouse from sleep, becoming restless — teething is hard and has brought a return to night nursing. You will turn up onto your side and wriggle over to me, fitting together with me like Yin and Yang as I wrap myself around you. You will latch without waking.