The first snuggle is the best snuggle

The older girl had a terrible headache and I got her to bed before the other two and she said are you coming to lie with me? and there is no answer to that but 'yes,' because she has become Of An Age where sometimes she just wants to read herself to sleep and swiftly fly the years, you know, such invitations must be regarded with the esteem they are due. And an end-of-day snuggle is filled with several whispered last stories, a sleepy girl, the comfort of a small warm body, and stillness.

Of course I fell asleep.

The younger two came upstairs for bed, and the boy was zonked from visiting day at the girls' school, and he fell asleep almost instantly, although there are nights when he queues up for snuggles; and I read to L and we turned off her lights and she whispers confessionals in the dark, her thoughts she doesn't otherwise give attention, and she is the best fall-asleeper, 60 to 0 with no warning, words, blink, light snores. But her body is yet smaller, so strong by day and featherlight at night and I don't want to disturb her. I lie there in the rhythm of her breaths, and of course I fall asleep.

And such are the nights, two snuggles, two sleeps, and the lovely husband awakes me, spins the bedroom rotation, awakes me again.

(And such are the other nights when there is no present lovely husband, he of both the snuggle qualifications to share the work load and of the man-of-steel ability to stay awake through said snuggles; and I fake-snuggle in quick succession, two minutes and out two minutes and out two minutes and out, nobody satisfied, nobody feeling a perfect drop into slumber; all because I panic that I'll fall asleep and not address the next queued-up kid.)

So I had two power naps, and came downstairs to eat the rest of the dinner that I didn't finish because of the snuggle-starting terrible headache, and then the zonked boy started crying. bad dreams, too sweaty in his footie pajamas, the ones he wears every day now, never mind it was 70 degrees today he needs his footies, and he always has nightmares when he sleeps hot. So we change him to a t-shirt and he climbs in bed and scoots way over and says I need your ear, which for him is the part of snuggle that matters. And then I am banished, penalized for earrings, and asked to return with accessible lobes, and again I climb in a small person's bed.

And a third power nap per evening is not a thing, so this is the point where either I fall into a deep sleep, nullifying the concept of 'evening,' or I lie there fake-patiently, just waiting waiting waitingwaitingwaiting for the distressed child to find a path back to dreams. The last snuggle is not the best snuggle unless I renounce my own bed and settle in, but that's not really ever a good plan, for there are things to be done and blog posts to type, so I balance on the edge of a twin mattress composing a narrative about the hierarchy of snuggle quality.