The Squeeze

It’s early, or late. It’s teething, or sickness, or the moon, or a dream they can’t verbalize. Their toddler bodies lay heavy on mine, the tears subsided, the breathing rhythmic and deep once again. Now that the storm has passed, I pray for more patience and compassion, for pauses and deep breaths and trust. I know they will be able to calm themselves someday, and that they learn through me. In the dark, his hand reaches out to mine from the other side of the bed and squeezes, holding my fingers tight with strength and solidarity. In the turmoil, they generally don’t want him. But it means the world to know he is here. That touch heals so much, and through it I know: I am seen, I am loved, and we are not alone.