Unspoken lullaby

You cried out for your mama.  I came to check on you since I was still awake on the couch and your mama gets up with you ninety-nine percent of the time.  Lord knows she could use the rest.

You were crying softly as I came into your room.

"What's that on the floor?" you pointed.

It was an AC adapter for the computer, I explained.

"But I want Mama."

"Mama's asleep, buddy."

I knelt on the floor and wrapped my arms around you until I thought you had gotten back to sleep.

Minutes later, you cried out again.  This time you pointed to something in the rocking chair.  It was the laptop.  I assume you must have been having a bad dream.

As I knelt beside you again, I only wished I could take it all away.  As most any parent would, I suppose.  I had nightmares as a kid and can't help but assume that's where yours come from.

My head resting on your back, I listened to you breathe and struggle to get back to sleep.  Your stomach made a noise and I smiled.

You were scared.  Of what, I didn't know.  But I had been there.  Heck, I'm scared now.  Every day.  The news is unwatchable.  Guns.  Hate.  Floods.  Fires.  Wars.  Anger.  Disease.  Death.  The world is a scary place.

In that moment, I was thankful none of those things (hopefully) were on your mind.  Your fear was (hopefully) something irrational.  Not that that made it any better for you.  But at least you're still young enough that I could comfort you, make you feel safe, and (again, hopefully) convince you everything is going to be ok.

I awoke this morning to you lying in our bed next to your mama.  I guess she didn't get as much rest as I had hoped.  But I was thankful she was there to comfort you.  

You were asleep.  You were safe.

Damn all the bad we inherit.