It's time for the boys to go to bed, and we go through our nightly ritual . . . we read, we pray, we sing. They get into pajamas - Joshua all by himself, and Jonah by the sheer force of my will, as I wrangle his leg into the first hole. His other leg gets stuck halfway through and we're falling over because he can't stop laughing and fighting and laughing about the pajamas, and I'm laughing too, but realizing that I am so done with the nightly pajama wrestle.

And then they're both in bed with the lights turned out, Joshua lying obediently and silently on the top bunk, waiting for sleep. But Jonah just can't let go. He has such a hard time staying in bed, going to sleep. So I kneel beside him and he reaches his little hand out and grasps my neck. Mama here, he whispers, and I confirm Yes baby, mama is here. His breath is warm and thick, and he whispers again, Shhhh, sleep. His little hand softly caresses my cheek, and I want to stay there all night. To curl up with him under his quilt and nestle my face into his soft damp hair that still smells like shampoo and evening air.

I think about Joshua up there on the top bunk, all alone. I want to grab him from his solitude and take both him and Jonah into one bed where we would lie with our legs tangled together, with warm kid breath on my neck and arms thrown across me, and sleep there forever. And I think, this is life.

Except then reality knocks softly on the door and reminds me how much I hate it when their too-sharp toenails gouge my calves, and how I would actually lay there not being able to move, yet wishing that I could just move one inch to one side or the other. Reality bangs on the door and I'm trapped in a web of arms and legs and hot sticky breath and please can I just have a breath of fresh air? Reality kicks the door in as I realize the urgency with which I now have to go to the bathroom, yet if I move my little toe then both boys will be awake for an hour.

So I whisper in Jonah's ear Night, night, baby. Mama loves you. And I retreat to the stillness of the house where I plop contentedly onto the couch with a bowl of artichoke hearts to watch Ugly Betty. I think, this is life.