the stroke.

I don't know at what age children learn the conceptual difference between 'rough' and 'gentle'. I think perhaps Chumley would argue that we are not quite there yet.

My favorite time of day is Oliver's bedtime, which begins around 5:30. The routine is dinner, bath, jammies, milk, and then we snuggle in together. I hold him until he falls asleep, which is entirely because I want to. If I were to just put Oliver in his crib and say goodnight, he would stand up and cry in protest, but within ten minutes he would be on his knees, facedown and asleep. (In yoga this is called 'child's pose', and the first time I saw him sleep like this, I did the ole "ahhh, that's why...".) No, I lay with him for purely selfish reasons. I get to make him giggle. I get to stare at his face up close. I get to hold his warm, dinosaur-clad body and smell his freshly-bathed skin. I get to witness his progression from awake, to drowsy, to trying-to-stay-awake, to...asleep. Then I stare at him some more.

Once we are curled up together, I press Play on a very relaxing bedtime CD. Chumley is always the first to succumb, and I know this because he rolls onto his side, often with one leg in the air, farts, and then snores like he's just had twelve shots of Jaeger and a cigar. Oliver gets heavier as he relaxes into me, and I feel myself melt into the mattress. I lay nose to nose with Oliver, eyes closed, listening to him suck his pacifier and feeling his little exhales.

Then 'Whack! Whack! Whack!', a very sobering, rapid-succession, open-handed, smacking against my cheek. (Recall that, embedded in the routine, there is a 'trying-to-stay-awake' part.) Sometimes it's a close-fisted pounding on my chestbone like a CPR resuscitation attempt. Sometimes it's a tiny finger jammed up my nostril in surprise fashion. And sometimes it's an orangutan foot that grazes across my face and plants it's toes deep inside my bottom lip. On a bad day I get all of these painful maneuvers in multiple.

Did I mention my son is big for his age?

Given that bedtime bonding is a contact sport at my house, I've begun to use the tactic I employ when Oliver is playing with Chumley: I take Oliver's hand in mine, and I stroke Chumley gently while repeating "aaah-ooh-aaaah, Chumley, aaah-ooh-aaah". Even though Chumley is tolerant of the abuse (perhaps his, uh, "stature" makes him immune), I want Oliver to understand the proper, loving way to pet an animal. So during the bedtime snuggle, I take Oliver's hand in mine, stroke my face, and say "aaah-ooh-aaah, mommy, aaah-ooh-aaaah".

Tonight when I was putting Oliver to sleep, we did our usual giggling in the dark, he did a "honk honk" on my nose, popped his pacifier in, and reached for my hair. I braced for the impending yank. Instead, he brushed my hair out of my face. Then he started to stroke my face very gently. My 15-month old was running the tips of his fingers very softly from my eyelids to my chin and back again. My eyes welled with tears. I felt the most powerful love for him, so proud of him that he was able to demonstrate such gentleness. It was one of those moments that makes you forget the rest of the world exists.

For me this was a lesson in contrasts. That we unfortunately only truly feel the immense power of something beautiful because we have also experienced the ugly. It is why when I exit the 405, irritated and angry, and turn the corner to see the sun setting on the ocean, I am immediately transported. Why the cleanliness of the air in the Pacific Northwest is burned in my olfactory memory. Why the gentleness of a handstroke is like the caressing of your heart. The next time I am in the midst of something tragic or frustrating or sad, I will remind myself that the loveliness of life will only be more pronounced as a result.