Sleeping with the Enemy

I have something to confess. I've been sleeping with another man, and Shawn knows all about it.


He's a short, stocky sort, prone to fits of rage followed by smothering hugs and kisses.


My baby.


I admit it, I lay down with him and "sleep" him to sleep. I know I'm prolonging the inevitable, but I don't care. A stitch in time saves nine, and all that. What's 15 minutes of extra Mommy time lost if it means not constantly having to walk him back to his room every 15 minutes for the next two hours?

Not to mention, what warm-blooded, uterus-carrying woman wouldn't indulge in extra snuggle time with her special little guy? The way he covers my face with his hand, or tells me to stop singing when I try to soothe him with a lullaby... You can't find that kind of quality pillow time just anywhere.

Except, in my case, if you were to walk down the hall and jump into bed with his dad. I can't tell you the number of times I've woken up with Shawn's hand on my face. Actually, not so much his hand, as the pillow he's holding in it.

I guess it's more my breathing he minds than my singing. Either way, I'm a lucky, lucky girl.