Count to 100

Friday, January 31, 2014


"Noooo, don't gooo," he pleaded. "Stay. I want you to snuuuugle wiff me some more."

"Okay. Let's count to 100. Then it will be time for me to go."

It's a bit of a game. We count silently in our heads. Whoever finishes first, opens their eyes. Often I just wait for him to open his eyes and smile at me. 

He blinks first. Then clings a bit more.

"You know," I say as much to myself as to him, "one day you won't want to snuggle with me anymore."

"Whaaat?" he responds, incredulous. "Why?"

It's as if I've just informed him that summer won't come or Skittles will stop making candy. This cannot be. It is not right.

"Well, when you're a teenager you'll be like, 'Mom, get out of my room already!'" My faux deep voice and the pure outlandishness of what I'm suggesting cause him to throw his head back with laughter. It's just too much. Impossible.

He sighs the last laugh, clings to my neck again. Cheek to cheek.

I smile, and savor . . . counting to 100, again.
::
Happy Weekend, Friends.


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