Really Be There

The biggest challenge, for me, of the part-time single parenting gig is just how much work it takes to balance all the needs of all the people, when there is only one of me. Er, of us. He's not another "me", but he sure is handy! For the most part, we handle the separation well by focusing on the positive things: the living room stays tidied, the laundry is easier to manage; meals are a bit less formal, but still nutritious; evenings don't have the same feel to them, but we do get through them. In general. The boys know Dad will return, and all will be well. I know it's temporary, and so, it's fine.

Smidge, however, has been hit the hardest this week. You see, in his two year old vision, there is no next week or last week. There is here, and now. There is the immediate and the impending, although the latter is pretty vague and manifests itself as more of a sensation than an upcoming event. And at bedtime, it hits him the hardest.

Bedtime itself hits me the hardest. Unless you could be billed as a double-jointed singing, juggling wonder (which, I couldn't), it's difficult to floss someone's teeth while the wailing infant is dangling precariously over your knee, her head coming uncomfortably close to both the tile floor and her brother's flailing feet. Why does he have to do an Irish jig while brushing his teeth, anyway?

Someone is always running around, clad in only skivvies, singing songs through his nose. Someone else is always leaping, gazelle-fashion, down the hallway, then slamming, mosh pit-fashion, into the door jamb. The boys seem to love bedtime, although I'm pretty sure we don't have the same goal in mind. Miss Emily seems to loathe bedtime, and I can't say I blame her. But Smidge, well, it's hard to be two.

What he wants and needs, come bedtime, is far from what I usually have left to give him. He needs a soft, gentle round of "I love you, a bushel and a peck..." He needs Tommy Tinkers and the Granny treatment. He needs "fife stories", at least. And he gets those, but somehow, they aren't enough.

Because those are the trappings, the decorative wrappers around what he really desires: he needs me to look directly into his eyes, with my whole body telling him that he is special, and that this time is for him. He needs that song to be sung with all of the attention my heart can give. He needs me to show him that all this craziness means something, and that it will be okay. He needs to have ten minutes where he is the center of my heart's attention.

And yet, every night I tell myself that I need to rush through bedtime and get these kids to BED. NOW. Hut, hut, chop, chop, let's Go, People! And they go. And we rush. And then, when it's all said and done, there are tears. I'm frazzled. I'm done. What? What's the problem? Didn't we sing? Didn't we read? Didn't I fluff your blanket enough to make that stupid fabric softening bear envious?

I'm ashamed to admit that even the tears aren't always enough to pull me back to reality. It's so easy, in the middle of the day, with the sun shining, and a full tank of energy, to smile at strangers as they pass us and say, "Pardon us, we move on toddler time." It's not so easy to keep moving on toddler time, especially when there is the promise of rest, quiet, and a chance to sit, quivering on the couch, and recover from the day. Perhaps even get up and walk around the living room in complete strides, rather than the short-legged shuffle at which I usually pace myself. But then there are the tears, and the what's-wrong-now, and the fleeting thought that if I toss enough stuffed dogs in there with him, he'll calm down and be okay.

And then I click. Because I'm slow sometimes. And I put the baby in the swing with whatever is on hand (probably some completely inappropriate toy, like Daddy's glasses, or my car remote), give the big boys an extra ten minutes to read in bed, and just sit with Smidge. Hold his little face in my hands and kiss all over him. Pull him into my lap on the floor and whisper with him. Ten minutes to be all his. And in return, he is all mine. And it's wonderful. The day's stresses recede, the week's worries melt off our shoulders, and we taste, however briefly, the sweetness that is this life.

And I'm an idiot for not remembering that. It's like Groundhog Day around here, you'd think I would clue in! ARGH. But even though I am nowhere near the mother this child deserves, he keeps reminding me that I am his, and that this is now, and that it's always going to be busy and hectic, but that it's no excuse for ignoring the important things.

I love you,
a bushel and a peck,
a bushel and a peck,
and a hug around the neck.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy