He tries to be sneaky, but stealth at 5:30 a.m. isn’t his strong suit. He’s supposed to stay in his bed until 6, but I’ve been unable to sleep for hours anyways, so I don’t try to take him back to bed. He climbs over me and works his way in between his daddy and me in the bed, tunneling under the covers and pushing himself up against my side so there is not even air between us.
He is so warm. Heat radiates from him and makes it’s way across my body, starting at my elbow, spreading up and down my arm, then across my back. He was born a snuggler, warm as toast and sweet as sugar, my little boy. And it makes my heart so happy that I am still his favorite thing to cozy up to when he wakes bleary-eyed in the dark.
“Mommy,” he says before he drifts off, his voice thick and heavy with sleep, “am I your best snuggler?”
“You sure are,” I whisper into his hair. My little boy.