There is something magical about a sleeping child. My son turned five last week and I wrote this poem when he was two, as the title suggests.
As a parent, especially as a working parent, nap time can be a precious time to be productive. I had a ritual of pausing for a few minutes to just watch him sleep before I ran for my To Do list. It was a sort of meditation to just watch and soak in the awe of his existence.
I don’t mention it in the poem, but at the time I was experiencing the transition to single parenting, and these moments to let awe sink in were crucial to keeping purpose and perspective.