We were headed upstairs from the couch--a bad habit, maybe, but I don't think I'll ever regret falling asleep on the sofa with him, a mess of blankets and snuggles. Adult responsibility nudged me to brush our teeth before going back to sleep (I give in to the laziness of poor dental hygiene far too often these days). I heard what I now realize is one of my favorite noises: the scratching of a snowplow making its way down the street. "BC, BC, let's look out the window! What do you think that sound is??" One truck passes, then another. "It's a snowplow!" I exclaim, with perhaps more childlike glee escaping that anytime but the wee hours of night would suppress. BC watches, fascinated. He turns to me and explains, "The cars have to wear their snow plows so they don't get stuck!" Yes buddy, that's exactly right.
We make our way to his bedroom. I lie in his bed, beckoning him to join me. He's two and a half, so nothing is immediate. He notices the sky once more: "The clouds are pink like morning! Mama! We have to get our hats and coats and go out into the snow!" If he weren't fighting a cough, I may have agreed. Wouldn't that be a wonderful memory?
Instead, I pull him into bed and describe (in words far beyond his age perhaps, but that's how I have always talked science with him) the reason it looks like dawn, but isn't quite yet. It's just the moonshine reflecting off the snow. What is that line from "'Twas the Night Before Christmas?" I make a mental note to look it up the next day. I've always wished I had more poetry memorized.
We curl up together with sleet tapping away at the window. Sometimes I wish he could fall asleep on his own by now; right then I wonder why I'd ever wish such a thing. These nights are magic.
(image source: http://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium-large-5/moonlight-snow-sarah-luginbill.jpg)
