There is one time, and one time only, that I can steal as many kisses from my little Bug as I want, and that is when he is out for the count.
I try not to take it personally when he groans each time I ask for a hug and a kiss, or when he chooses to play outside while Hubs mows instead of going to the grocery store with me. (Yeah, I’ll let you know when he chooses the latter. Here’s a hint – it will be never.) Or even when he is only still long enough for me to reassure myself that he does exist and looks (roughly) the same as he did yesterday.
But when he runs and hollers and kung-fus himself literally until he passes out from sheer exhaustion and lack of energy, I can sneak into his bedroom and get my fill. And he is none the wiser.
When I peek in on him, and he’s stretched out on top of his blanket, blissfully silent and static, curled around some odd mixture of dinosaurs, soldiers, plastic weapons, and books, my heart breaks. He’s almost as long as his bed, his hair is usually still damp and sweaty from pre-bed-time wrestling with Dad, and his eyelashes are so long, closed against his cheeks, you could trip over them. And after I tuck in all four feet of him, excavate his collection of toys from around and beneath him, and kiss his soft, flawless (unprotesting) cheek no less than thirty-seven times, I leave his room stunned at the little boy he is, and the tiny baby he was just ten minutes ago. (Give or take.)
He is outrunning me, and there’s nothing I can do about it but enjoy the blur. And hope he pauses every now and then for me to catch a glimpse.