Gorgonzola, Wensleydale, Brie, Cheddar, Velveeta

This morning, after the WCM left for work, Miss Peanut shuffled into my room and climbed up into bed with me. I stretched out an arm to her and she settled her head onto it, cuddling her body into my side. We slept, connected, breathing in tandem while the day brightened into morning.

When I awoke fully, I stared down at her sleeping face and smiled. Delicate half-moon sweeps of dark lashes brushed her rounded cheeks, still flushed with sleep. Her sturdy little legs were bent, her knees digging in my hip. One of her arms, still clutching a pink stuffed bunny, was curled under my armpit, pushing against my side. As her warm body sheltered by mine in my big bed, I remembered all the time I spent in this bed with her: the weeks late in pregnancy when I was confined to it, feeling her fluid bulk roll through me, anticipating her arrival; the hazy first weeks of early motherhood where, exhausted by round-the-clock feedings, I lay on my side in the bed, nursing this tiny new life, feeling her tiny starfish hand move softly up and down my arm as she fed; times when infant nightmares prompted a removal from the crib to the comfort and security of Mommy and Daddy's bed, trusting us to keep the monsters at bay.

Certainly, every parent experiences a certain amount of bafflement when they realize the amount of pure trust their children place in them. I know I'm constantly humbled when Miss Peanut comes to me in tears over her latest boo-boo, completely confident that I can heal it with a magic Mommy kiss. Or when she has a cold and climbs up in my lap for me to pat her back and rub her temples and make her feel better. I love being able to answer her constant questions, like "Mommy, can an ostrich run faster than a cheetah?" Realizing that she takes my answers as gospel, I feel a huge responsibility to answer with care.

I realize now why mothers, for centuries, have smiled quietly when they see their children sleeping. It's not only relief that the child in question is not awake, alert, and crackling with vibrant life. It's that watching them sleep brings back the tenderest moments of their infancy, where they never questioned you, or talked back, or uttered the heartbreaking phrase "I'll do it myself."

I hated to wake Miss Peanut this morning, as all these thoughts ran through my head. I hated to see her sit up and move away from me, becoming more herself and less and less a part of me. At the same time, I love observing the independent little person that she has become - watching her make sense of the world around her. And I love that after she rubs her eyes, she grins at me, and flops back down on my arm, asking "What are we going to do today?"

This bond we share - I hope I never take it for granted.