I don't want to forget this...

2 am this morning. My bed. Evan and Corinne are tangled around each other, my blankets and my pillows and I awoke with a start: I sigh... Where do I put my own head? Where do I stretch out and relax? When do I get a few moments ALONE, for cryin out loud?

Then.

A whimper and a cry and Corinne is frantically searching for something. Panic is in her glassy eyes and I know that she is still in that place between sleep and consciousness. I reach for her and attempt to stroke her wild sun-streaked locks down.

Shhh... shhh... Mommy's here.... shhh....

She clings to me instantly and shudders. I can only imagine the drama that was unfolding within her 4 year old mind, for she has relaxed against me and manages to murmur against my shoulder,

"I just wanted you, Mommy. I was scared and wanted you..."

There is a basic need that I have to touch my children. It's a need that is echoed back by them.

My kids are more than just an extension of me. They represent more than the love that Patrick and I shared to bring them into this world. These words right here are such a pitiful representation of what I am grasping at... Just let it be known that we exist together and are connected at a primal level. It's a common human need to want to be touched; But it's a mother's need to touch her children and to be touched by them. To be deprived of that ability must feel as though you are deprived of oxygen-rich air. Yes, I can exist with the poor quality air of the mountain-tops, working twice as hard to jump and run. But I'd rather thrive in the jungles below, breathing in so much oxygen that my mind feels euphoric and body rejuvenated...

What will life be like for me as my children pull away and no longer search for me in the night? When I am the only one with the primal need to touch them and their desire is to establish themselves as individuals? No longer so tightly connected to the woman that birthed them...

I suppose grandchildren are like oxygen masks. They have the ability to replenish the quality of air. They allow themselves to be overly hugged and held; to be adored without reserve...

And then I hear Evan stirring in his sleep. And he startles awake and reaches out for something...

And I remember to stay in the present. To enjoy the now. To saturate myself with so much oxygen right now that I cannot stay awake for the melancholic thoughts to take over. I reach for my son and stroke his spiky brown hair.

Shhh... shhh... Mommy's here... shhh...