I watch his laborious progress from a distance, the kitchen, as he reassembles his nest at the bottom of the stairs at 5:25 a.m. on a Sunday. He reinserts his little body back into the neat fold, extends his arms and drags himself, the duvet and half a dozen furry friends towards the family room. His spindle arms tire every three or four pulls across the smooth hardwood floors, so he pauses. I do not offer assistance nor comment. I wait. The weather has turned chilly after dark but they both refuse nightwear. This is his version of self help, self initiated and without a murmour of protest.
Their bedroom is the furthest distance away. A narrow corridor of hardwood floors, a U bend and a staircase. I wait until the whole caboodle reaches the edge of the carpet, where the resistance stops his progress. He is forced to slip out of the nest and haul it onto the sofa. Our eyes meet. He leap toes across to me for a silent backwards hug as his chicken ribs shiver. It’s about all one can reasonably expect following such a marathon of effort. I’m glad to be on the radar at all. He dashes back to safety and burrows under the duvet. I sit down next to him for a moment of continued silence and heavy breathing after all his exertions.
“Do you know what?”
“I think perhaps pyjamas might be an easier way to start the day?” He nestles in closer without a word.
27 minutes ago