His full weight is on my head right now. Not the usual squirm-and-point, not the shouting and leaning over to check my face every ten seconds. He’s just dead weight, slumped against me like I’m a piece of furniture. He’s worn out. And so, apparently, am I.
Most days up on my shoulders he’s a live wire. Bouncing, twisting to see something behind us, both hands smacking the top of my head to steer me like I’m Alfredo Linguini. He leans down over my forehead just to grin at me upside down, like he needs to check I’m still there, still enjoying this as much as he is. It’s exhausting.
But every now and then, like this moment, he just goes quiet. The energy drains out of him all at once and he collapses forward, face resting against my head, water bottle forgotten in his hand. No bouncing. No pointing. No narrating everything he sees. Just his whole small body trusting mine to hold him up.
I didn’t expect that to be the part that gets me. I thought I’d miss the wild version—the shouting, the steering, the constant motion. And I will. But I think what I’ll really miss is this. The moment he stops performing being a kid and just lets himself be tired, right there on my shoulders, without a second thought about whether I can handle the weight.
I can. That’s the whole point of these shoulders. Wiggling or slumped, wide awake or worn out—he doesn’t have to wonder if I’ve got him. He just rests there and trusts. I pray one day I’ll deserve it.
Westerman.Blog 