She climbs up onto the bed, dragging her blanket behind her. I tuck the covers over her, kissing her cheeks. And when she asks, "Can you lay wiff me?" I do.
Her body is so little in the bed, like a baby kitty tucked into a bed made for a Saint Bernard. I ease in next to her, and she slowly scoots her way next to me, and I can feel her warm breath on my face.
It is peaceful. I am happy. Until she starts to toss and turn, and whispers become louder, and sleep seems illusive. But before my frustration turns to anger, I realize, I have no where else to be. Nothing else that needs to be done. And so I let go.
I close my eyes and listen to her voice, reminding her to whisper when her replays of the day get too loud. She throws her arm over, patting my back, and behind her pacifier I hear the muffled words, "Mommy, I love you."
And this is why, when we are not a Family Bed family, I let go and enjoy a few nights in bed with my two-year-old. Why a weekend at Grammy's gave me the opportunity we don't have at home (nor want at home), to have two nights in bed with my baby. Nights I will cherish as she grows to fit into a double bed, to not want her blankie and nuki, to not want her mommy to lay next to her.