I haven’t been this still and stuck in my own brain for years. I watch his jaw work while the milk goes down as I offer up prayers, no, not prayers, petitions? No. Transactions. Yes, transactions: Please God, get this frigging kid to sleep and I promise I’ll stop using the Lord’s name in vain during sex and traffic. It must be day seven, because God rested.
Being stuck there, though, waiting for a toddler to slip into a deep enough sleep for me to be able to roll out of bed and tippy-toe out of the room, feels like a hostage scene. A single one of his feet is smaller than the bites I take out of my Filet ‘O Fish, yet Callum has the power to keep me still for what seems like ever.
We’re starting to phase out Callum’s naps because we’re finding that on the days that he naps, he doesn’t get to sleep until after 11 pm, and honestly, that’s just not going to fly around here. Andrew and I work our asses off all day long and yet, come 11pm, we’re still sitting on the couch while the dictator chases the cat around with a tennis ball? I think not.
Now that he goes to bed at a decent hour, I have to say that I’m going to miss it. I’m going to miss being forced to stay still, stuck in my own brain. I’d run my fingers along my hips, dipping into the deep crevices of my stretch marks, remembering the pain that grew them and the time that healed them. I’d watch my youngest son’s chest rise and fall and wish that I could do the same with Jake for then I’d know that right then, he’s okay. My mind would race, I’d be dying to get back downstairs so that I could curl up into Andrew’s arms with a glass of wine and a bowl of chips, sure, but sometimes I need to be forced to stay still and feel All the Things.
Because sometimes that’s the only way we can finally put them to rest.