The Fairly Odd Mother

She was sullen all morning. Argumentative.

“She’s been away for three days. Let her be,” I told myself as I steered clear and tried to avoid a fight. She was clearly in the mood for a fight.

Funny, though, that when she is in this type of mood, she wants to be near me. Like a dog nipping at my ankles, waiting for me to kick.

I got into the shower, turned on the water and faced my back toward her as she slunk in the doorway.

“Do you believe that there is a Santa Claus?”, she asked, barely audible above the noise of the shower.

“What? Do I believe in Santa? Sure. . .but, what did you hear? Do you want to talk?”

“No. . .nothing. Forget it.”

“No wait, I just need to rinse my head. I’ll be right out!”

She walked away.

A minute later, dripping in a towel, I sat and talked to her but the moment was gone. She says she will stay up Christmas Eve until she sees him. If he doesn’t appear, she’s decided it is actually mom or dad.

I nodded, trying to clear my hungover, tired head to say something of importance, of meaning.

“I started thinking the same thing at your age”, was all I mustered.

She sighed, smiled, and slowly became my little girl again.

Seven years old and another step forward.

For me, perhaps another step back. I think in words all the time. Why do they fail me at times like this?

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That is (approximately) how many nights my youngest son, D, has slept next to me. When we brought him home from the hospital, there was no bassinet, no Pack-n-Play, no crib. He was just placed between my husband and I in our big (or so it seemed) king bed.

And, now, tonight he sleeps in his sisters’ bedroom, next to Jilly who reluctantly let her brother crawl, kicking and screaming, into her full-size bed.

There were many tears shed tonight, on all sides. D begged, “I want to sleep in MY bed!“, not understanding that our bed was always on loan. Not understanding that his big limbs now hurt when they kick or flail in the night. Not understanding that Mommy cannot possibly move any further off the edge of the bed without landing with a thump on the floor.

Our plan is to ease him out of our room, and then, out of his sisters’ room and into his own bed. We would have made the move straight to his own bed but he doesn’t have one yet. We still need to redo the kids’ playroom into a bedroom, but I’m hopeful that if he can help design his bedroom, he’ll be more apt to be accepting of it (naive of me, isn’t it?).

I have no doubt that tonight I will wake to find his sweaty, teared-stained face on the pillow next to mine. And, I’ll let him stay–Supernanny be damned. I know that I should be firm, consistent and not waver in our decision. But, if we have to do this in baby steps, so be it.

After all, this conflict over where D sleeps is going to be a non-issue in a few short years. Just take a look at Bossy’s photo of her son as he shops for things he needs for college. Yeah, I can see the four-year-old in that face. And, I plan to hold on to my own (almost) four-year-old as long as I can, because it won’t be long before I’m wondering where all the years went.

Update: at 4:18am, D was back in my bed. I heard him crawling into our bedroom (crawling? maybe b/c it was so dark?) but there was no crying or shouting, so I just scooped him up. He fell asleep with both hands on my cheeks. And then kicked me in the belly a half-hour later.

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