I've been cursed the last few days with a bone-crushing exhaustion and a simultaneous inability to sleep when I want to. I'm either fighting off a cold or still sleep-hungover from staying up till 5 am on New Year's.
Although I can't drift back to sleep this morning, I find myself unwilling to leave the comforting seclusion of our bedroom, and so I have been reading--a blog post about Internet hatred and an article about the Uruguayan president--while Colin and the cat sleep on beside me.
This is the sort of peace I crave: the relative quiet except for his regular breathing and the cat purring; the warmth of his limbs and torso nestled with mine; the cat curled up in a furry pile on my stomach or curved around my head on the pillow. My kid is watching Netflix in the other room, but if it's early enough, she'll drift in and rest her small head on my shoulder and sleep contentedly for an hour or two.
Even when I am mentally far away--contemplating solitary confinement or teenage suicide, reading about other people's problems to distract me from the work stress that is preventing me from going back to sleep in the first place--they are here, warm and loving, supporting me even while they dream.
I love the den feeling. When it's cold out and listening to the sleeping body beside me and (in my case) the sleep mutterings of dogs. The best.
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