#48: Henry Nap

He is six years old, seven before we know it. He weighs in at just over 50 pounds and would stand almost 4' 2", except that he can't stand. Can't walk. Can't talk. To a large but ultimately unknowable extent, he can't see either. He can't feed himself and he can only be sustainably fed by us via a feeding tube. We've come to accept that he may never learn to speak, to read, to walk, to drive.

But he can love.

And except for those moments when he is shrieking at us like a banshee, usually because he's feeling bored, he radiates a gentleness, a sweetness, and a playful, loving warmth that just melts you.

No matter how much time I get, I never feel like I get enough time for just Henry. Between my long work hours and the attention commanded by his little brother, it's hard to fit it all in a day. I do get him up and ready for school in the morning, but during that time he is eating his breakfast via tube so he's up in his wheelchair. It's not cuddly time, though I do give him a foot rub and he pokes at me whenever I dare turn away to drink my coffee or read the news.

So those moments in the evening when I just get to hold him before bed, and he is calm, and content, and drifting off to sleep, when all 4 feet and 50 pounds of him draped are across my lap, those moments are utterly precious. I had one of those moments tonight.

Understand, when he sits on you, radiating his warmth and his comfort and his gratitude at being in your arms, it is like being put under before surgery. The sleep washes over you and you will just drift away. He is the world's largest sleeping pill. And I'm always glad to just cast off.

Thanks for the nap tonight, Henry.