The Moment

It has become my nightly ritual since I’ve moved in to this place to spend the last hour or three of my day in my cozies on my bed with my laptop and a glass of wine.  I really enjoy this time (except for the discomfort in my neck from being in this position).  It is both relaxing and entertaining, and it’s the time when I get to be in front of the computer doing something I love versus the job that I must.  Old Lauren (you’ll meet her some other day) wouldn’t be able to do this.  Because the piles of laundry that need to be put away and the displaced furniture and the unpacked boxes would have kept her on her feet until it was all done.  Literally.  Old Lauren pulled all-nighters cleaning and organizing because she couldn’t sleep knowing it was there.  But not me.  I am perfectly content stepping over Mt. Sweater and being stabbed by Bumble Bee’s Canon on my way to the unmade bed (all while balancing a glass of wine, a laptop and box of Cheez-its) to sit, write and drink. 

Tonight, however, the minute my fleece sweatpants-covered ass hit the mattress,  Braden started crying.  It started out quiet and weak.  I was letting it go.  We have made HUGE strides in his bedtime behavior.  He has gone to sleep in his room without a fight every night since we’ve been here.  He has also stayed in his own bed every night until last night.  Someone must have drugged last night’s glass of wine because I woke up this morning with a three-year-old in my bed and I had no clue how he got there or how long he had been around.  I even asked him “Hey!  How did you get in here?”  His response?  “Sorry I peed in your bed.”  Aaaaand good morning.

Back to tonight.  The crying got louder.  I still let it go.  In most cases, if he cries in his room at night, whether at bedtime or in the middle of the night, it eventually stops and he’s back to dreamland.  But then it happened.  The Moment — when everything I had done to make what I wanted of my life, and the pride and sense of accomplishment in acheiving that, was shattered.  “Daaaaadddddyyyyyyyyy…   Daaaaadddddyyyyyyyy….” 

Now, Braden has asked for his dad before on a handful of occasions (i.e. when he can’t have a cookie, when I won’t buy him a Transformer, when I tell him he can’t watch the Simpsons, you get the point).  But never has he cried for him just because he really did want his dad.  I went to his room, sat him on my lap, wiped his tears and asked him to talk to me.  He said “I want my daddy.”  I asked why.  “Because I love him and he’s my daddy.”   Then his lips quivered and tears came gushing out of his eyes.  He was crying from the pit of his stomach.  My baby missed his daddy.   My baby was SAD.

While rocking him, I sang Braden his favorite bedtime song.  He calmed down.  He asked if his dad would pick him up from school tomorrow (luckily, the answer was yes).  Then he snuggled his bunny and went to sleep. 

I split up with Braden’s dad in 2007.  Without getting into it, we weren’t meant to be.  But he is a good guy and a good dad.  And Braden spends half his time with his dad.  My ex and I have gone on to live seperate lives and we are both happy people who get along rather well, as far as exes go.  I don’t regret our split.  I know we would have been an unhappy couple had we stayed together and we would have lived our lives feeling stiffled and resentful.  That’s just not the environment nor the example I’d want to set for my son. 

But the lip quiver sent pangs of guilt through me.  It’s not his fault.  Ideally, a three-year-old boy who wants his daddy at bedtime should be able to find him down the hall.  And this is the first of a lifetime of moments that will break my heart as I witness my little boy suffer the consequences of my decisions. 

Braden is sound asleep now and I am drinking wine and blogging.  I look around me at this mess of a wonderful new home and think, “it’s going to be a busy weekend”.  Or not.

Tagged as: Blogging, Braden, divorce, ex-husband, home, Parenting, Single Mom, wine, Writing