Our bedroom door crashed open.
And a sleepy, disoriented toddler came bursting through, slammed the door behind him, launched himself onto the bed, jumped to the center, landed a la trampoline, wiggled himself between Michael and me and promptly conked back out.
While I lay there, heart palpitations rocking blood and jitters throughout my body.
We've had kiddos come to nest post midnight many a time through the years.
But when 8 of 8 comes crashing our slumber party, it's something of a hostile takeover.
Though he immediately falls back asleep, he's still romping through fields and jumping off of couches and flying with Buzz Lightyear on the stage of his mind. First he'll kick Michael in the ear during a deep dream sequence and then I'll get a heel to the kidneys.
Once 8 of 8 takes over the middle of the bed, he sleeps soundly and Michael and I doze, ready to defend ourselves from his pugnacious fiesta of a siesta.
But when the sun begins to rise and gilded light saturates the room and I hazily awake with him curled into me, he makes for a sunny morning. He's becoming a little boy, the baby fat on his cheeks still in evidence but his face elongating. He's becoming a little boy, the sparse curls of his baby hairstyle having given way to a little boy haircut. He's becoming a little boy, rejecting zip-up feety jammies for the cooler Star Wars and SpiderMan pajama homages.
He's becoming a little boy.
So I'm happy to keep our 3 am dates, heart palpitations and kidney kicks and all. To nest a little longer, to be the place he finds comfort, to be the place where he can dream and jump and find warmth.