I never intended to be a “family bed” type. Unlike some people I know,where my children sleep is not an issue I take any kind of politicalstance on. It’s just kind of something that has happened to me. Withoutmy consent, even.
You see, almost every night, my baby boys sandwich me. It is notalways a comfortable sandwich, but it is a predictable one. Daniel,thoroughly spoiled, nurses on and off throughout the night. At somepoint after midnight, Raphael also finds his way to my bed. He snugglesin behind me and presses his small body against my back. He smoothes myhair, he pats my head, and he nuzzles the back of my neck.
The boys are agreeable enough. Unless I try to move, that is. Thishappens to be a coercive sandwich: Mama is not permitted to move.
But last night I needed to. I had a vomiting older child and awakeful 3 year old with a tendency toward nightmares. Every time Ishimmied my way out from between the two babies, however, a howl ofprotest rose from the bed.
“This is ridiculous,” some exhausted person was heard to say.Perhaps even loudly enough to wake her husband (how do they sleepthrough these things?).
It was ridiculous. And yet, simply because I was so tired,last night I did not fight the sandwich. And so it was that at 4:00 inthe morning I found myself — worn out and yet wide awake — squashedbetween babies. As I cradled Daniel with one arm and reached awkwardlybehind me to pat my enormous toddler with the other, I smiled at howclosely my circumstances reflected the ridiculousness of an everydayreality.
I suffer from an absurdity of abundance. Always stretched to my limit. And always blessed without limit.