Mom Sandwich

I often start my mornings as a mom sandwich.
Youngest on one side, middle on the other.
It’s hot.
It’s uncomfortable.
My children turn into octopi in the night.
Mutant octopi.
Eight arms, and
eight legs each.

Some mornings, I’m desperate to arise.
Work calls,
or breakfast.
The bathroom beckons, too.

But instead, I rest there.

Soon enough, someone will stick an elbow in my back.
A leg will be thrown over me,
kicking a sibling.
Then a foot-pushing battle will ensue.
The youngest eventually yowling while the middle…
simply smiles.

Soon enough, they won’t seek me out in the night.
Like the eldest, whom I must seek for nighttime contact,
and wishes for good rest.

When that time comes, I’ll be so thankful.
Thankful we only had
a queen-sized bed,
which is
not
quite enough room.

Thankful I had this time to be the jelly to their sandwich.

I’ll sleep undisturbed, and cool, with only Buds by my side.

(Where does Buds end up in this time of the sandwich?
At the end of the bed, or in whatever sleeping spot is open.
He is a kind soul and an easy sleeper.)

Those will be good days, when my sandwich days are over.

But, oh, I am thankful I have gotten to be the jelly.