good morning.

One by one, they arrive.

Kid after kid. In random order.

Sleep in their eyes and warmth clinging to their pajamas. The smell of night still tangled in their tousled hair.

They crawl into our giant bed and wedge themselves between mommy and daddy and they feel safe. And loved.

Eyes close again and sleep becomes the victor.

I can’t turn over and a seven-year-old leg is trapping my thirty-nine year-old leg. But I lie still and let the leg remain.

I turn off my alarms before they begin and I make a choice.

A choice to sleep in.

To cuddle.

To accept an early morning kiss from a three-year-old regardless of his thumb-sucking mouth smells.

To kiss the head of a sleeping seven-year-old crushing my side because I know that when that same boy is awake he will wipe my kisses off his head.

Five of them are with me in this early morning glow.

One kid is already far beyond the sneaking into mommy and daddy’s bed stage. She stays upstairs in her room. She closes her door when she sleeps. Her dreams don’t draw her down the steps in the dark for comfort.

And I know, I know, like I know how heavy Bergen’s leg is right now and I know how loud Mosely’s breathing is, I know, that my mornings like this are numbered.

They are fleeting.

I know with too many blinks of my eyes that all of my ones will sleep through the night and shut their doors and wipe away kisses and shun my cuddles.

Which is why this morning I am turning off the alarms. I am having whispered conversations about dreams. I am squeezing small hands and lying still under crossed legs.

I am staying in bed longer and cuddling harder and just being still.

Because I am surrounded by blessing. I am breathing in the air of sticky sweet blessing.

And this morning, this day, I am determined to see with grateful eyes and thankful heart.