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I curl up close to him- “him” representative of former boyfriends, previous lovers, husband, well, now ex-husband. I feel tiny, my back against the expanse of his chest, his large, heavy arm draped protectively over me. I am the little spoon.

I hate every moment of it.

I feel hot, short-of-breath, unable to move. I try to shift positions in the hopes that his grasp will loosen; but, alas, this endeavor does not work out in my favor and now he holds tighter to me. I gasp for air, but it’s only the recycled air that we are forced to share due to his close proximity. To say snuggling is not my thing is a gross understatement.

“Baby, isn’t this great?” Does he honestly think that this is what I want?

“No!” is what I wanted to cry.

“Oh, yes, it’s wonderful!” Are my actual words. Wonderful? Wonderful?

Fast forward to present day, when my little guy of just 4 years old tip-toes across the hallway, shuffling into my bedroom wearing his fleecy footy-pajamas. Immediately roused from sleep, I peak at the clock on the side table next to me to see the emblazoned numbers. 1:24. AM. A-freaking-M. I consider the task of actually bringing him back to his room: swinging my legs over the side of the bed, allowing my bare toes to touch the cold floor, scooting him down the hallway, under protest, to his own bed. I decide against it, however, and pull the covers back to allow my boy access. He doesn’t want to sleep on the empty pillow next to me, though. A king-sized bed just for our two small bodies, yet he would rather lay as close to me as humanly possible, our cheeks touching as he curls in close. I wrap my arm around him not wanting to ever let go, and our breathing synchronizes as we both drift off to sleep.

I am the big spoon.


No, I’m Not Drunk

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