Usually, bedtime follows a predictable pattern. I read Jamison a story, I nurse him and sing a lullaby to him, and then I lay him down. Right before I leave the room I lean down and whisper in his ear, "I love you Jamison. Sleep well." Usually he's realized I'm about to leave him in his dark room alone and he fusses a little before he rolls over and drifts away.
Tonight was different. When I laid him down he just smiled up at me sweetly. I leaned down and nuzzled his cheek. I gave him a little kiss and said, "I love you Jamison. Sleep well." And he put his little hands on my face and looked at me. Looked at me. Then he gave this soft, happy, contented little coo. If somebody would have observed the two of us in that semi-darkened room, they would have seen me glowing.
I came downstairs, a little choked up. I told Keaton what had happened. "I don't know," I said, "I really think, when I told him I loved him, that he was trying to tell me that he loved me too."
"I sometimes think they have little moments of clarity," he said. "I think they are allowed that."
As a mother, I live and die for my child. I would sacrifice anything and everything to keep him happy and safe. When I look at Jamison, I feel such devotion, such adoration. And I have never felt such sweet joy as when the object of my devotion took my whispered "love you," and said back to me, in his own baby way:
"I know, mommy. I love you too."
