Toddler Teeth

Broken sleep for Baby Beckam.

He is a puzzle to which I will never have all the pieces.
It is 3:30 a.m.
I am trying to ignore his new found voice.
Especially because it sounds an awful lot like he is saying, "Mama."
This gets my instinctual adrenaline racing and my whole body is on alert.
It is impossible to sleep in this state.
All of my biology propels me out of toasty bed with toasty husband to the cold hard wood of the floor.

 It is also worth noting that last night was the first time Pepper has slept all night in her own bed in months.  When we snuggle in to say prayers I ask,
"Please help Pepper sleep all night long, in her own bed."
She looks up at me from pillow and her Bambi eyes ask,
"Is that what God wants me to do? Sleep in my own bed?"
To which my eyes affirmatively respond,
"Yes."

 I wonder if Eckhart Tolle has kids.
I am telling myself, 'Be here now.'
And it's not working.
I don't want to be here now.
I want to be asleep now.
So does Beckam.
He is a solid lump of agitation in my bed.
I snuggle him deeper.
This is not like him.
I look into his face for some sign of what is bothering him.
All I get is, 'Please help me.'
I don't know how.
We both fall asleep, and dawn arrives.
Even though I am exhausted, I am relieved by the light of the sun.  At least I don't have to try rest anymore.

I find his smile and his voice anew with the morning.
This happens without fail.
I can speak softly to him.
Pepper comes in triumphant, strutting her tiny butt through her  jammies.
"You slept all night long in your own bed!"
"Yep!" she exclaims and beams at me her toddler teeth.

Now my headache is minor.
And my only comfort is that everything is temporary.
My only understanding of God is the undecided possibility in front of me.
I find it in the wide open sky during a run, when I realize that I don't have to get old.
Because this work ages me quickly.
As I watch Pepper prance around the top of our leather couch... the one we were supposed to keep nice and never let kids jump on...I realize my ideals are being trashed by my children.

My ideals about ambition, myself, my body, the use of my time, my marriage, my food, my music...
"Destruction of self"  This is the spiritual path.  I asked to be stripped of all my self-identified suffering.  But the application of it is not nearly so romantic as when I read Siddhartha.  Lucky for me, my heart will not be denied.  It knows love too deeply, and I always have one more hug for my children in the morning.