Today after church, I slipped onto something more comfortable: the living room couch, with a pile of blankets.
I have been doing this for a long time. I had been raised to know that the only reason for being in bed in the daytime would be because you’re sick. Besides, I would miss all the action (so-to-speak) if I were in another room. So the living room couch is the place to be when taking a Sunday nap.
Lately, though, I’ve had competition. My Older Son (who is a college commuter) has seen the appeal of the Sunday couch too, and there isn’t room for us both.
One Sunday, he grabbed it first and I had to make do with sitting up at the end of the couch and trying to sleep, which didn’t work all that well (not for me, anyway).
The next week, I leaped on at the same time and we wrangled each other from opposite ends—I kind of came out the loser on that one too, ending up with one leg on the couch and the other on a footstool.
It wistfully made me remember when he was so small and we slept on the couch snuggled together with his little face so close to my heart. I wanted to gather him to me again, and breathe the same breath.
A large foot in the face is better than nothing.