Sleep cry

It is early in the morning, the wee hours, and he is crying. It’s sudden, and so rare that it shocks us, this sound coming across the monitor. It’s a pitiful cry, a whimper and a wail. I sit up, my bones cracking, and stumble out of the bedroom and up the stairs to him. He is asleep but crying, and I imagine he’s been overtaken by sadness or worry in a bad dream. I reach into his crib and pat his back gently; sometimes my touch alone soothes him out of these rare spells. But he’s wailing now, eyes still closed, warm red cheek pressed against the sheets. I pick him up and without waking fully, he clings to me, arms tight around my neck and legs wrapped around my belly. It’s the most sincere hug I may have ever experienced. I sway back and forth, shushing him, rubbing his back, as his wails turn to sighs and then just soft breaths. He breathes me in, his nose in the crook of my neck just so that my hair grazes his own. We stand there, swaying, holding each other for five or so minutes, and I speak softly to him and tell him it’s okay, that mama is here and will always be here and he will be fine. He believes me, and when I lay him back down and stroke his face and tell him to go back to sleep, he does so without so much as a second thought.

It’s a tiny triumph, but the kind that sticks.