It’s nighttime, around 10 p.m., and if I tiptoe into Kip’s room and lean my head inside the door, I can hear all three of my boys—and sometimes even all three dogs—sleeping. In that moment, I feel a little bit like God. Lovingly observing my creations and knowing their infinite potential. I stand, legs spliced awkwardly to avoid the creaky floor boards in the hall outside of Charlie and Kip’s bedrooms and, arms outstretched, one gripping the door frame for support as I sidebend my top half in the direction of my other hand, which grasps Kip’s doorknob. It’s the purest kind of pleasure, a motherly joy to tiptoe from doorknob to doorknob just to listen for the sound of breath.
Every night, after I meditate, my mind is quieter than at any other point in the day, and it just seems like a good idea to be in their presence for a brief moment. Sometimes it’s the only time of day I’m peaceful.
Saturated in awareness of the divine, I listen with awe to the in-and-out music of deep sleep, say a prayer for their peace and protection and I thank them for being my children. Then I carefully close the doors and tiptoe to my own bed, passing signs of my earthly life (a pile of laundry, dog hair dust bunnies, a trashcan full of diapers), nonetheless feeling a bliss that makes me wonder if God isn’t separate from me at all.