The night before the war … As I put my eldest son to bed, my husband, in the next room, pontificated the brackets, anticipating a sure win this year with the help of the Sports Center experts, whose muted television voices filtered through our cozy upstairs bedrooms.

I lay curled up on my toddlers bed, as he sat at the foot conquering a puzzle he had faced a hundred times before, yet as seemingly excited as when he first pulled off the clear shrinkwrap letting the wooden pieces topple gently to the floor.

I cuddled under his quilt with red, yellow and periwinkle cars and trucks, my body their temporary mountain to climb, as I stared at his exploring eyes. He picked up a rounded piece with his small but sure hand and softly clicked it into the mother board, printed with a street scene of cars and trucks and buildings created from a stranger’s imagination.

With only the soft light from Gordo and Fishy’s fishtank falling on our shapes he looked into my eyes, paused and smiled, his dimple creating a small dark valley on his soft skin. He raised his eyebrows making his big blue eyes slightly bigger.

“Sleepy, Mommie?”
“Yes, Honey, Mommie is sleepy.”

Still smiling he went back to work as his little brother shifted slightly and breathed a deep, peaceful breath in the white, almost glowing, crib a few feet away.

We played the smiling game for a few minutes. Me watching him work, he peeking his head over the quilt under which I was partially hidden every 30 seconds or so, then breaking into a huge smile when he saw me smiling.

After a small struggle to end puzzle time and begin sleepy time, he curled up next to me, snug into my abdomen, an exaggerated form of how he may have lain two-and-a-half years ago when he was safe inside my belly. I fell asleep with the slightly floral and honey sweet smell of his newly washed hair in the air, feeling the soft blond tresses under my cheek.

It was so peaceful …