Mother and Child

He cries in the night, my baby boy, and I wake and stumble on sleep-heavy feet up the stairs to his crib.  He falls into my arms and I kiss the peach-fuzz head nestled suddenly into the curve of my neck.  We settle together into the rocking chair and he nurses eagerly, hungry not for the milk that flows but for the closeness of our bodies.  He dozes and I lay him gently back into his bed and tiptoe back down to mine, trying to step around the creaky spots in the steps. My head has barely touched the pillow, though, when he calls again, and I smile and rise and return to him, as I do every night.  This time, we come down together, and together we curl up under the big down quilt.  He is getting almost too big to tuck neatly into the hollow formed by my own body, but he makes himself as small and still as he is able and we fit ourselves together anyway.  He lifts his face toward mine for kisses, for carresses, and I oblige because I am powerless against the innocent and unselfish love he bears for me.  The fine hair of his head tickles my nose as I breathe deeply of his scent.  After a time, he sighs deeply and pops his thumb into his mouth.  In moments, he is sound asleep.  I know I will wake for the day long before he does and I can not leave him alone in our big, tall bed, so I carry his limp body upstairs once more.  As I lay him down, he grabs a fistful of blanket and rolls over in his sleep and I return to my bed once more.  It’s been an hour, perhaps more, since he first woke, and I will be tired in the morning, I know, but for now, I am content.  Before I drift off to sleep, I wonder if the infant Jesus, too, woke His Blessed Mother like this and I think he likely did.  I smile in the darkness to think that she wouldn’t have minded this small sacrifice of rest, either.