I snuggled into his bed to watch him play because I was tired. I was drained. Every one of our conversations that day felt like I was pulling myself back from a void, into the present. Forcing myself to pay attention to the words that were coming out of his mouth.
The least I could do was lay there, in his bed, and watch him play, right? He deserves at least that?
But then he wanted me to chase him around the house. While my depression has been improving, I just was not at that place, in that moment, where I could bring myself out of the fog long enough for such exuberance.
I told him no. And then felt crushed with the guilt that I can’t enjoy these simple moments with my son – gifts really – that seem to slip through my hands so quickly. Quicker every day.
He looked at me. He gave me a pensive stare. And then he smiled. As if he knew exactly what I needed.
He started slowly piling his stuffed animals on me. Playing peekaboo with them. At a pace that matched me perfectly. Then he would pile so many on my head that I could not see him and he would tickle me. Then he made me grab at them as he ran around the room, ever so slowly awakening my spark. Making me giggle. Making me engage.
By the time our other third returned home from the grocery store, we had all the animals performing back flips off the bed, talking to each other in crazy voices… and we were both laughing uproariously.
I am so lucky for this miracle in my life.