The other night I found myself wide awake, unable to go back to sleep. It was too dark to see the clock on the wall, the dim light of the small lamp too far from it, but it felt like the quiet of 2 or 3 am. I sat up and studied the three sleeping figures on our makeshift bed on the floor. It was cold in the room. I smiled slightly at the sight of my husband hunched in his small space at the corner next to Joshua, completely covered by his Marvin the Martian wool blanket. He insists on sleeping with us on the floor in spite of the big empty bed in the middle of the room.

Our family bed on the floor is like a nest, made of two long foldable mattresses laid side by side, flanked by the foot of the bed and the couch and completely surrounded by pillows.

Joshua moves a bit to where I usually lie, feet searching for me. I am often awakened at the sensation of his cold toes burrowing under my tummy, which means he has kicked off his blanket yet again. They hate having their feet covered -- no footsie pajamas for them.

He moves again, and hugs my legs. I marvel at his size now, tall for a 5 year old and remember when I could hold him in the crook of one arm and hardly feel the weight. His cheeks are like porcelain, cool and smooth as I nuzzle them. He doesn't wake up despite my attentions.

I look at Faith sprawled in complete abandon, arms and legs every which way, hair tangled on the pillow, mouth slightly open. Her toes are tiny and pink. Her breath still smells like a baby's, milk combined with her unique scent.

I could stay up watching them for hours, then briefly thought of getting up and finishing my book. Then a creaking noise spooks me. So I squeezed myself between the kids, burrowed under my blanket, turned my face into Faith's sleeping one and closed my eyes.