The little one crept into my bed in the middle of the night and slowly inched me to the very edge. She flipped and flopped and tossed and turned. She threw an elbow a time or two. She kicked her legs. She twirled my hair in her fingers. "I love you, mommy," she said, and she sighed a big sigh, looked at me and smiled, and drifted off into sweet sleep.
The big one snuck into my bed as daylight broke. She tiptoed in and quietly closed the door. She struggled for a small square of covers to call her own. She kissed her sister's forehead and gently held her hand. She closed her eyes, spread her limbs out as far as possible and fell asleep just like that.
And there I was with one leg off the bed and one leg on, one arm numb and the other sore, entirely exhausted and somehow completely satisfied. I laid in the stillness of that room, until they began to stir, wondering how someone who can take up so much of your bed can also take up so much of your heart.