My husband falls asleep before I do almost every night. Tonight he fell asleep with a book on his chest. He does very little reading in bed, mostly just sleeping with books on his chest. So tonight he fell asleep with one of those "BlahBlahBlah For Dummies" books. And his yellow highlighter fell asleep right beside him, cap off, tip exposed, an ever-widening puddle of florescence on our bedspread.
I spot-treated it with some Shout. I hope it comes out.
I'm looking at the culprit right now, sleeping soundly right next to me, his right hand resting on my tummy. I couldn't possibly be mad at him. There's something about a sleeping person, don't you think? Something innocent and pure. Vulnerable. Sweet.
I love to watch my children sleep. I do it almost every night when I go in to check on them before I go to bed. I just stand there and listen to their breath and look at their mouths, clumsily ajar. Not a hint of guile on their faces. Sometimes a little bit of sweat on foreheads and temples as the sultriness of summer settles in. And for a few minutes, the only thing in the room, the only thing in the world (it seems) is me, them and love. Even if it was the hardest day in the books.