Oh, right.

We sleep on a king-sized mattress on the floor. Don’t ask, it’s a long story involving co-sleeping, trial-and-error, and musical beds–but it works for us. Between our “bed” and the wall is the mattress from Z’s laughably unused crib. On the other side of our bed is our dog’s bed.

Basically, we all sleep in one big pile on the floor in our tiny bedroom: Mama, Dada, toddler, dog. Our nightlight is an electronic candle flickering at the foot of the bed.

Last night I lay awake in the faux candlelight, listening to the breathing in the room around me. My husband mostly slow and even. The dog a deep low rumble. The baby soft and quick, punctuated by soft whimpers. I could pick each one out, like the strains of a symphony.

My own breath was silent, I could only hear it in my brain. I tried to follow it, to induce some relaxation-meditation. Chasing sleep.

The whole time thinking, this is it. This is the time when all four of us are breathing, alive and on this earth together. The planet will keep spinning and one by one we will no longer be here.

I know I sound like a high school goth poet, but frankly–death has been on my mind a lot lately. Our dog has cancer and is going to die soon. We lost a close family member in December.

There has been a lot of contact with the other side. A lot of wrinkles.

Zane’s birth made me think of death too. I don’t know if I am just morbid or if it’s only natural, to think of the end of life at the beginning. On the day he was born I kept thinking–here we are to witness the start of his life, who will be there when his life ends?

I hope I am not there, of course. But I want to reach through time and tell whoever is there, please be gentle with him, he is just a baby.

I keep thinking of that interview with Brene Brown…

Joy is the most vulnerable of all emotions.

What a fragile state, to love what is right now. To want to live in a moment forever.

I’m much more acquainted with longing: hoping that things will change, trying to have faith that things will get better.

I’m blindsided by the tender heartache of loving everything exactly as it is.

And so the healthy eating obsession. Could it be any more obvious? I can talk about wellness or compassion (or hello, vanity) but isn’t this all just an unspoken attempt to control our death? To push it back, to make it less painful if possible?

To try to add some to the number of days when we’re all here, breathing, on this earth together.