Last week, two days before the Blessed and All-Holy Internet returned to our home (bringing me back into the realm of the living online, i.e. my all-together-necessary mom blogs), we had a red-letter day.
Oh, it was bad. I already mentioned that The Boy thinks that moving to a new house necessitates giving up that wicked, wicked nap. Taking Nap = Dada Gone = New House = No Grandparents = Mama’s the Enemy = Refusal to Sleep = Whine Scream Shout = Straight-Jacket for Mommy.
Thing is, we’ve become co-sleepers and night owls unintentionally through this move, as he’s been sleeping in our bed for the past three or four weeks, between packing furniture, sleeping in hotels, and unpacking furniture into the first floor of a half-finished and still very much under construction house.
On the one hand, it’s terribly sweet to wake up and find your sweet little boy snuggling next to you in the wee hours of the morning. I cherish it, and I know it won’t last long.
On the other hand… I’ve come to depend on his taking a nap.
So Thursday was a bad day. By three o’clock (the Hour of Mercy) I had reached the point of dear God I can’t make him sleep can you please do SOMETHING? when, lo and behold, he fell asleep. Never doubt the power of prayer and some awesome guardian angels who I owe, big time.
But I still felt resentful. And annoyed. And tired – too tired to do much of anything except cry.
It got worse. The Professor came home and shared some bad news about former neighbors of ours, tragic news about their six-year-old boy. A little boy who passed away this evening in a D.C. hospital. Whose last night of life was spent in the arms of his mother, she sleeping on the hospital bed beside him.
I cried some more, but this time from sorrow and guilt. Sorrow for our friends, and guilt about my own attitude.
Gratitude and acceptance is so hard to come by. I try to practice both every morning, making lists of thanksgiving and of powerlessness. Yet they evade my easy reach. I have not been given the grace of an effusive, easy-going heart. An empathetic one, yes, but not a sanguine one.
Truth is, I love my son. Very much. And I had some unrealistic expectations of him, of our day, and of our move that I had to relinquish. Because, in the end, this, too, shall pass, but whether is passes sweetly or bitterly has everything to do with how I see him, how I see our situation, and how much I am willing to roll with the punches.
Thursday was the red-letter day. Friday, though sans-nap and The Professor working late, was peaceful.
A single lesson. That he is my treasure.
May I treasure him always.