Last night Sam had a nightmare.

It’s been a while since he had one — maybe since the winter. For a while he was getting them regularly, thanks to whatever crazy developmental stuff was going on in his little head. But the past few months have been uneventful when it came to his sleep.

It’s sort of funny that even in his half-sleep mode he stops at the door of our bedroom to ask if he can come in. It’s not something we taught him, just something he does every time he wants to come in. So at 3:34 a.m. he was standing there, calling “Mama! Mama! Mama!”

I told him to come in, sat up, held him on my lap, nuzzled his hair and asked him what the dream was about. It was about bugs. On his legs, in his bed, on his stuffed animals, and I had to wash them off right now. I rocked him for a bit then took him back to his bedroom and tucked him in.

I sat there for a bit, stroking his hair, listening to his breathing even out, watching the corner of his mouth twitch as he went back to sleep.

Drew tiptoed in and stood next to me in the darkness, gently touching my shoulder.

I felt married. With a child.

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