Do you ever sneak into your child's room, late at night, and sit on the floor next to their bed just watching them sleep? Yeah, me neither.
I think to myself, sometimes aloud to him, how amazingly perfect my son is. He's the single best thing I've done in my 33 years on this planet and I can't fathom a life without him in it. I sometimes think, gazing at his slumbering form, that he's a dream I'm in and will be gone when I wake up in the morning. I lean over to smell his hair, knowing if it is a dream that's the scent I'll search for forever to hold in my arms again. He's the sun, moon, stars and everything in my universe. And oh how I fear he'll be gone one day. It's an irrational fear, I know, but the nights I need to be there watching him sleep, I'm not rational most times.
I wonder if my parents ever do that. Do they hold tight the memories of my sleeping childhood? Do they, like me, wish things were different somehow?
It's awkward being around my parents. They're almost strangers to me, while other family members are much closer. I see my parents and I can't quite reach them. They're in the same room as me but I'm searching for them still.
I remember my dad used to be my world. Then, something happened and the man I knew and loved and worshiped just disappeared. In his place? An angry, ugly, sad man who couldn't love anything around him and destroyed almost every relationship he had with anyone beyond all repair. The day it happened, the day that loving, kind and caring dad left me, I never thought I'd get over.
I looked for that kind of all consuming love, for decades. It haunted me to want to love like that and I forced myself to overlook flaws, just so I could have that love. It was fake, of course, I realize that now. I lied and pretended so much, that I really believed I'd found it. With a boy. I swore I'd love forever.
Then he left me, leaving behind in his place, a wounded and hurting and spiteful man. Wielding my love for him against me like a boomerang. He'd throw it at me and use it against me to get me to do things for him, forcing me to sacrifice my own goals and dreams to help him further his own, rewarding my sacrifices with insulting words and degrading actions. Still I held on hoping his love would come back. When it didn't....
I ran from him.
I ran from everyone I knew and loved. I needed space to find myself.
I found that love, for real this time. The day I felt my child stir in my womb for the first time. It was my 29th birthday and I was just starting really show the bump of pregnancy. Lying calmly at night, curled up in my husband's arms, I'd felt the first nudging from within. Even better, I got to share it with "Squishy*"'s dad, since he was there with me that exact moment.
The moment all other loves I'd thought I had finally paled in comparison and I realized I was carrying my truest love with me that moment. I love my husband for everything he does and is in my life, but I adore my son!
As crazy as he makes me, with his constant almost mindless tantrums and his insane amount of energy and his lightening quick frustration over the smallest things, I would do anything for him.
My son, my sleeping wonderment of silence, my greatest accomplishment, my reason for wanting to build a home where ever our family goes, my heart, soul and whole being now begins and ends with his smile.
I wonder if, years from now, when he's yelling at me telling me I'm ruining his life, will I still feel this way for him? Will it go away with time or get stronger? Does he have any idea that he really is my most favorite thing in this world? I tell him, he's my favorite, but does he understand that concept?? To have a favorite? He has a favorite teddy bear, but over time he learned we had more than one of them for him. He always knew when he had the original one though. Does he know he's my original love?
Does any of this make sense to anyone else?
Am I rambling because I'm tired or tired because of my ramblings?
*Squishy was the only name we told the family before Nixon was born. We knew the name was going to be met with opinions so to avoid the inevitable name choices being tossed our way, we dubbed baby boy "Squishy". Some people pouted over not knowing the name (Marsha....cough, cough.......) and others fully embraced Squishy. A few people may have even been concerned that Squishy wasn't just a nickname and we were going to somehow actually name our child Squishy on his birth certificate. We didn't because we always knew he'd be our Nixon.