283. Hospital Snuggles

As I'm laying here in a hospital bed holding my little boy, I can't help but think of the last time that happened. Then, he was fresh from heaven, testing out his lungs, trying to figure out what his arms were, who all the people around him were, what this whole living thing was about. Sixteen months later, he's figured some of it out. He knows that mom and dad mean safety. He finds comfort in his stuffed bison and in his blanket. And yet all of these strange people keep

Coming in, and each time one does, he cries for fear of the unknown that they bring. 

Then, I held him close, teaching him what Mommy was. Again, I find myself holding him close, reaffirming that same idea. Mommy is warm. Mommy is safe. Mommy is love. Mommy is home. 

He is in an unknown and scary place, but he knows I am here with him. He's playing with my necklace and kicking his little feet, doing what he can to find comfort in this chaos.

Though I've cried many times on the last few weeks as we've battled this illness, right now, in this moment, I relish this sprawling snuggle and the adventure we have had together so far.