This morning I awoke to the soft carpeted thuds of my seven-year old’s feet rounding the side of my bed. He quickly scurried under the covers and his head popped up next to mine.
“Good morning, Momma.”
“Good morning, Little Fish.”
I smoothed back from his forehead dark hairs recently parted by a mischievous scissor incident last week. He wrapped his arms around my waist and folded into my body. I love that my children are still small enough to fit so close. I can imagine I am still carrying them in my womb. I miss that time of wonder and flesh rolling with their bodies shifting under my skin.
Within minutes, Levi came to us in a flying leap. He kissed his daddy on the face about 13 times, rolled over, lifted his arm and said,
“Mom, smell my armpit.”
I don’t know why I get armpit and dad gets showered with kisses. Levi made it up to me by rolling over again, announcing more than asking, “Dad, smell my breath.”, before breathing hot into Paul’s face before he could contest.
For a time, we are cuddled in a warm cocoon. Limbs all tangled with covers as we put off heading into a day apart.
Suddenly, I realize that I cannot move my arm. I realize that I cannot quite roll over because my legs are under the dog. I find my body in a contorted position that I cannot change or control.
And just like that, the panic sets in.