Last night Cedar fell asleep at 7. This being a little earlier than usual (8:30 being usual), I took him up to bed and climbed in myself as well, with book and journal and chamomile tea in a singing yellow fiestaware mug. The light was dim and underwaterish. I could still see his little serene face, and laid there totting down and sorting out my thoughts, catching them on the wing. I wrote a long-overdue letter, tidied up some trailing mental loose ends, and generally puttered around in my inner creative free-patterned part that is separate from being a mama or a wife or a daughter or a friend. I welcomed myself back. It's been awhile.
Tim has been home, not working much this whole time, spending these first weeks with us. Soon he returns to his 12-hour shifts and I need to find my way along some long stretches without break with this boy. I'm intimidated, not sure if I'll know what to do to keep myself open and capable and fresh. This is probably a universal feeling, which is somewhat comforting.