Every night at 12:04, I wake up to the sound of feet padding down the hall. The steps are clumsy and sleep-flled and uneven. I hear the creak as our bedroom door is pushed open and then hear stumbling in the dark. Next, I feel the weight of my three-year-old as he climbs onto the bed and over me. He finds a warm place in the middle, and he wedges himself in. He adjusts and fidgets, kicks off all the covers, then falls asleep with his head on my small pillow. I move to the edge of the bed as I feel his knees digging into my back, then he shouts out into the night that he is thirsty. I give him his water bottle, pull the covers over him and kiss his cheek. We fall back asleep, but I wake up again when i feel the crash of his head against my face. He moves and shifts all night, and I am pretty sure that he regularly dreams of superheros. At 12:04 every night, Sawyer claims the middle spot: i can count on him to show up and he is never late.

And sometimes when I wish that he would just *please* sleep through the night in his own little bed, I realize that soon, he probably will.

And then I will look back and long for the mornings when I would wake up to his little face pressed so close to mine that our eyelashes were tangled and our superhero dreams were the same.