I adjust myself in bed, attempting to sleep; wishing for a night of uninterrupted slumber, but I know the truth.
The pat of little feet. The voice, not as squeaky as it used to be when he was little.
"Momma, I can't sleep".
He crawls up into my bed, nuzzles into the curve of my body......then he sprawls out.
Within moments, he's drifted off.
His arms and legs extend out, mimicking a starfish. His placement in the bed is annoyingly adorable. With him positioned like this, sleep for me is very unlikely. But I cherish these bed takeovers, because they will soon be gone.
I adjust his legs together and roll him on his side. He snores and throws his right leg out like a soccer player, landing square on my back.
I wait. Then I wait some more.
I move his arms in toward his body, oh so gently. He rolls inward and puts the heel of his hand upward into my chin. I may have a dimple there now.
Obviously I have moved him too soon.
I roll over and close my eyes, while he tosses around. He headbutts me off the pillow, then the edge of the bed. Our familiar tango continues.
In a final attempt to get some sleep, I pick him up torso first and maneuver him to the other side of the bed. This is no easy feat. At almost 12 years old, he is nearly as tall as me. He is a starfish floating through the air, and his limbs will remain as he forms a star; an 11-year old, bed-hogging star. Smiling to myself, I accept defeat. I struggle, carrying the little ocean dweller out of my bedroom.
That's it, my little starfish. Back to your own bed.