It’s 3am, I hear you gasp over the baby monitor. Yes, at six years old you still have a baby monitor. My feet hit the floor before my eyes open. I barrel down the stairs to your room, turning on a hallway light so as not to wake your sister. I open your door to find you vomiting on your bed. You look at me, tears in your eyes disorientated by my sudden appearance. As I scoop you up, you point to the bed and say, “I mess”.

I gently wash you (and your bed). As I redress you I hear you whisper, I sleep mommy. You curl into my arms; secure in your knowledge that mommy will keep you safe. We crawl into my bed; you rest your head on my shoulder and gently rub my face. Sensory seeking as you begin to fall back asleep. I realize at this moment how much you have grown, your toes reaching my knees.

I remember that first day in the hospital, when you would curve into my chest your bottom in the air. You fit into my arms, like you were made for me. Tonight, just like then, you had to have your head just so under my neck. Unlike then your arms were not long enough to wrap around my shoulders. Your fingers could barely wrap around mine.

You slowly drift off to sleep. I listen to you breathe and remember when I used to have to count your breaths. In the semidarkness I watch your chest rise and fall. I remember how scared I used to be and give thanks that you are home in my arms. You open your eyes, say mommy and drift back to dreams.

I wonder what you are dreaming about. It must be nice, I think, as your lips turn up in a smile. I wonder if you are thinking about school or the latest Sophia episode. I remember when I worried that you would never go to school or have dreams. It is nice to have those fears disappear and hope emerge.

I forget, sometimes, how much you have grown. It’s moments like this, at 3am, where I realize you will always be my little Boo.

I am more than okay with that.