The dim afternoon light bathed my room with that rare warm sleepy feeling. The fan whirred gently. I sat at my desk quietly pondering the meaning of truth.
We have a full house today and all the beds are filled, so Ezra lay on my bed sleeping a few feet away. I was struck by his restfulness, his rhythmic breathing, the gentleness of the moment.
I felt the sudden urge to lay next to my boy. As I did my own body became strangely restful. It felt good.
After a few moments Ezra began to stir and saw me lying next to him. He grinned. So did I.
Not sure why, but I had the feeling that this was one of those rare moments you can only have when your kids are small. It's the kind of moment that doesn't, or can't replay itself as your children grow older. It's the kind of moment that can only happen when life is made of play and all is still simple. Ezra delights in me, and I...in him.
I don't want to leave this moment...
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One of my greatest fears is that I will, little by little, begin to forget the series of seemingly insignificant events of my boys' early years. Perhaps I fear this because I know that these years are THE most formative. On second thought, it's not so much that I fear forgetting but I fear that there will come a day when I do not know my own children. Perhaps my hope is that if I pay attention now...I will know them better then, and in turn, they will know me.
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