Comfort

Kid woke up at 4 a.m.

He likes to fall asleep in my arms, on the bed in his nursery area. I stay by his side, hoping he falls deep asleep. If I’m lucky, I can get another hour or two of sleep.

My attempt at transitioning him back to his crib failed. I snuggled up with him.

Then I opened up my social media feeds.

I read about a country where crying babies are ripped away from their mothers and fathers. I read about a government willing to spend more money on separating families instead of keeping loved ones together as they request asylum. I read about American citizens, who were held in internment camps, and are now sounding the alarm about history repeating itself. They say they can’t imagine going through those camps without their parents.

The day before, I watched children sleeping under foil sheets, behind caged walls. I listened to children calling for their mamas and papas, because those are the only words they know and their parents, the only safe haven they ever knew, were taken away by American authorities.

My mind kept racing. My heart ached. Tears spiked my eyes.

Then… my sleeping baby turned over. We faced each other. His little hand covered my bicep. His binky slipped out of his mouth. His lips touched my shoulder. My 20-month old son comforted me in the middle of his dreams.

I am lucky.

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