I Don't Even Want to Know How Much Ice Cream They Gave Him
So let me begin by saying that tonight, I am a bit traumatized. Not by workmen trudging through my kitchen leaving muddy footprints on my white tile floor. Not by having a flashback to 1993 by sleeping in my old bedroom for two nights. And not by the fact that not that long ago, lethal gases were swirling about my abode, killing every living thing in their wispy paths.
No, I am traumatized because my son is still with his grandparents.
And I'm here by myself. For the first time since he was born, he is not with me.
I can't tell you how strange it is to know that there is no little boy snuggled in his bed in the next room. That I will not be awakened to the little voice in my ear saying, "Hi Mama" and the subsequent good morning hugs and kisses.
He has been so clingy lately, and I was fearing that I would forever be clasping that small, slightly sweaty hand. When he pronounced his willingness to stay at my parent's house, I wanted to capitalize on his perception that sleeping at other people's houses could be fun, and that not having mom or dad around would not be the end of the world. That he could be safe, and that he could trust his parents not to abandon him.
Earlier, I was talking to my sister on the phone, wondering how the whole going-to-bed routine had gone. If he had a meltdown, or if he cheerfully kissed them goodnight and went to sleep. Sometimes I hum along thinking I know exactly what he is going to do, and he turns me into a liar. So I was just really curious to know how it all went down. My sister sternly told me, "Enjoy your night. Don't call. You don't want to know. Just assume that everything went fine and you will be able to fall asleep."
I hate it when my older sister is right, but she had a point.
I didn't call.
Tomorrow we will find out who had the rougher time.
Betcha it's me.
Update: Oh, it was me by far. I called this morning and spoke with a child who had gone to bed with no problems whatsoever, had grandma make him chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, and was watching Bob the Builder. I'm not sure he wants to come back.
No, I am traumatized because my son is still with his grandparents.
And I'm here by myself. For the first time since he was born, he is not with me.
I can't tell you how strange it is to know that there is no little boy snuggled in his bed in the next room. That I will not be awakened to the little voice in my ear saying, "Hi Mama" and the subsequent good morning hugs and kisses.
He has been so clingy lately, and I was fearing that I would forever be clasping that small, slightly sweaty hand. When he pronounced his willingness to stay at my parent's house, I wanted to capitalize on his perception that sleeping at other people's houses could be fun, and that not having mom or dad around would not be the end of the world. That he could be safe, and that he could trust his parents not to abandon him.
Earlier, I was talking to my sister on the phone, wondering how the whole going-to-bed routine had gone. If he had a meltdown, or if he cheerfully kissed them goodnight and went to sleep. Sometimes I hum along thinking I know exactly what he is going to do, and he turns me into a liar. So I was just really curious to know how it all went down. My sister sternly told me, "Enjoy your night. Don't call. You don't want to know. Just assume that everything went fine and you will be able to fall asleep."
I hate it when my older sister is right, but she had a point.
I didn't call.
Tomorrow we will find out who had the rougher time.
Betcha it's me.
Update: Oh, it was me by far. I called this morning and spoke with a child who had gone to bed with no problems whatsoever, had grandma make him chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, and was watching Bob the Builder. I'm not sure he wants to come back.
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