Angels at sleep

It’s quiet and dark upstairs in the house. The soft whoosh of an air cleaner hums away in Austin’s room; the light blue face of the clock casts a pale glow in Hannah’s room. My children are asleep.
Hannah has already kicked off most of her covers. Austin has contorted himself into some corner of his bed. They are still now.
Hannah’s face is expressionless, a surprise, as I half expect her to always have a smile. Austin, too, appears calm and content.
For a parent, childhood is a treacherous and glorious occasion. There are the physical hurts from spills and accidents, from the rough and tumble games of the playground and from the missteps of trials and errors. And the there are the emotional pains, real and imaginary, self inflicted or from friends and family.
I watch them sleep and I almost think to myself, “I would keep them here, sheltered in this warm and sound place, safe from all the hurts of the world.” But I can’t, of course. They need to touch the sharp edges and the hot surfaces of life if they are to grow. They need to experience those hurts.
And, in truth, the home is no refuge, either. They live in two homes, the product of a divorce, already familiar with separation and loss.
I watch them sleep, walking the short hallway from her room to his and then back again, squinting in the dark to see them. They are resilient. Broken bones, scrapes, bruises and heartaches are no match for them. They emerge each morning stronger.
They have been hugging me a lot lately, and I have found myself wondering, as many parents would, if something was wrong, if they were facing challenges at school or dealing with some other emotional crisis I didn’t know about.
But standing here in the quiet it occurs to me: it’s not about them.
I lost a friend two months ago and now am also dealing with some other personal issues that surely have left their mark on me emotionally. I am certain the burden shows on my face – and that they notice it.
They are clingy, hanging on me, hugging me, whenever they can, because they sense I need it.
I do.
I watch them sleep. And I thank the universe for making me their father.