I just left my 9 year old son's room, where we snuggled together in the dark before sleep, as we've done since his birth.
I hope I never forget this moment:
Me: If you want to be an oceanographer, you'll probably want to go to college near the ocean.
Son: But I would miss you mama.
Me: Well, I'll just move there. I want to live at the ocean again anyway.
Son: We can never leave this house, mama.
Me: You can't be an oceangrapher in Iowa, there is no ocean here.
Son: I can study at the lake.
Me: But then you'd be a lakeographer.
silence . . .my son thinks about this.
The "night-night" music plays, and I feel his little body relax into sleepiness. I realize, as I sometimes do, that these nights are very numbered. In a year or two, more or less, he won't want me to cuddle with him at night, as it should be.
Me: When you are a big man, I will always remember the nights we listened to night-night music in the dark, when you were a little boy.
My son feels me crying, he can tell there are tears in my eyes, and he turns to look at me. We tickle each other and laugh.