The middle of the night

The middle of the night, he calls out to me. "Mommy."

Calling for water in the middle of the night.

In the middle of the night - in the dark-  he knows where he is. He knows who to call out for. He's here with me at his blue house. But it would be the same if he was there: At his gray house... He would know to call for her. 

During the day he finds buttons to push. He is stubborn and makes his displeasure for certain things known. 

These changes have not been that easy on him. He is a bit angry. 

During the day, he calls me "Mommy-Mama" more times than just Mommy (my assigned title). He's indifferent when he throws the "wrong" name into the air- "You figure out who I mean," he seems to eye-roll; "Not my problem the names are so similar."

But somehow, in the middle of the night, as he sits and waits for the water he requested, he knows who he is, where he is, which one of us is on duty in this place. 

He drinks. He sighs. I steal a full-lipped kiss.  He puts his head down and waits for the covers to be pulled up and around to his ears. Another kiss and "I love you." Tomorrow he'll probably do this in that other space where I won't get to run water in to him if he beckons. 

But in the middle of THIS night, he's mine to tend to. Mine to lose sleep over. 

There are now two types of middles of the nights. There is here and there is there. There is what-I-want and not quite right. There is a chance for interrupted sleep in either kind of night. 

One type is much sweeter and one much harder to bare.