When bedtime calls, I just want Caleb to stay in his bed asleep. I am tired and don't want to hear any silly sounds or deal with any more pint sized people with an energy source that seems to never diminish. I get cranky and frustrated and impatient.

And then, after my strong demands for him to stay in his bed (no matter the times he sneaks out with a clever story or reason for being up), I just sit here in my own space. Finally. 

After I have said space, sometimes I'll go in and see his sleeping body. And I just want to be with him again. I want to be better. More patient. More willing to be silly. More willing to play. 

So often I feel like it's not enough. He asks me to play with him all the time, but I am always doing something. Like making dinner. Or taking something out of the oven. Or finishing up our neighbor gifts. 

I go in to see him when he sleeps sometimes, and I am amazed anew. This is my son. Wild. Both he, and the reality of it. I don't live in the wonderment of this reality enough, not at all. I am woken up by a child who is hungry at an hour I do not ever want to be friends with. And thus begins our day, of a tired mom who gets us both to work and school, and by the time I pick him up, he is cranky because he is tired and hungry. We are too busy living the menial daily details to bask in anything, let alone the wonder of what we are. A mama and a boy. A woman who is weathered with life (dramatic, but not necessarily inaccurate), and a spry, creative, observant, inquisitive boy. I lose time this way. I lose time by not putting aside the work that has to be done, or my feelings of impatience.

I don't mean to end this short post so dreary. But right now, I just wish I were better.