Late last night, we had a pretty loud thunderstorm. As Monkeyman has developed a moderate fear of thunderstorms, he immediately came running and crawled in bed with me. (Bug slept through the whole thing without a peep.) So we laid there in the dark, snuggled closely, and had a long whispered conversation about how lightning and thunder work, and how the light travels faster than the sound. To illustrate I began counting one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand and so on, from the flash until the arrival of the boom, to estimate how far away the storm was from us. About 15 miles was the fairly consistent result, and that seemed to help calm his fears a bit. A few minutes later we were still whispering and even giggling, and a few minutes after that... he drifted off to sleep.
There is something so lovely about being someone who is needed by a child for comfort, where just your physical presence and the sound of your voice close beside him can reassure him and make him feel safe. Of course, that same thought is also a little terrifying, because then you think - who would be there for him like this, if something were to happen to me? Becoming a parent makes you value yourself in a whole new way, and you acquire a self-protectiveness that you didn't previously have. But you quickly shove those thoughts far back in your mind and focus on the joy of the present moment where the world seems to consist only of the two of you in your little cocoon.
That is, until your poor husband comes in wanting to go to bed, and finds the boy sprawled across his spot. Sorry you were stuck on the couch last night, dear!