It was that precious time of night when all the kids are tucked safely under the warmth of covers. I was able to exhale my guard away as they slept peacefully against their pillows, like apple-cheeked cherubs. Including Buzz, even though he was taking over more than half of my bed after insisting that’s where he wanted to rest.
Once they did, and the house fell silent, I gathered myself a midnight snack. A treat. Normally and preferably ice cream, but I’m trying to make healthier food choices. So I poured a bowl of Raisin Bran.
After making sure the doors were locked tight, I stumbled in to bed with a sloshing bowl of two scoops of raisin cereal in hand. Looking down at the little boy hogging more than his fair share of my bed, I pulled the covers down to slip in. Attempting a smooth, quiet transition. On tiptoes, as careful as I could be not to stir him.
But then I lost my balance.
I couldn’t catch myself. I tripped. I fell. In slow, horrified motion.
The hand holding my bowl of cereal landing square above my sleeping son’s head.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”, I whispered, raising myself to view the damage. I was expecting a puddle of milk. Bran flakes clinging to his soppy hair. A look like what the hell, mom? But Buzz only tossed very briefly, then found a comfortable position to sleep again. I patted the bed in awestruck disbelief. A bowl full of milky cereal fell on his head and there was not a drop spilled. Now I’m not a very religious person, but I’ll be damned if that’s not a miracle.