Mom, Are You Still Alive?

It’s not every night.

But when all three of my kids sleep in my room, it’s important to know this:
the bed is big.
Plenty of room. Options. Freedom.

And yet—somehow—they all end up right next to me.

My youngest sleeps with me every night. He has his own bed, but he treats it like a suggestion. He knows exactly where he’s going—straight to my side, curled in like that’s his assigned seat.

My oldest and middle only sleep in my room when my husband goes to work. And when all three of them are here, the chaos begins almost immediately.

There’s shifting.
There’s blanket theft.
There’s someone breathing directly into my ear for no reason.

Eventually they fall asleep, and that’s when the real mystery unfolds.

Despite the size of the bed—despite all that glorious, unused space—they migrate. Slowly. Strategically. Like sleepy little magnets.

A hand lands on my arm.
A foot presses into my leg.
A knee settles into my side.

No one says anything. They just need contact. Proof. Confirmation.

Mom still here?
Still alive?
Still available as a human safety rail?

Sometimes it’s one finger touching me. Sometimes it’s all three of them somehow making contact at once, leaving acres of empty mattress on the other side while I’m pinned in place like I lost a game of musical chairs.

And I don’t move.

Because when my husband is gone, this chaos makes me feel safe too. Their weight, their warmth, their unpredictable sleep gymnastics—it’s comfort, just… loud and slightly aggressive.

They reach for me to feel secure.
I stay because I need it just as much.

One day, they’ll spread out.
One day, they won’t need to check.
One day, the bed will finally feel big again.

But for now, I lie there—barely moving, mildly overheated, deeply loved—thinking:

This bed is huge.
This space is nonexistent.
And somehow… this is exactly where we all want to be.

 💛A quiet hooray to the nights that feel crowded, chaotic, and somehow exactly right.