Mosaic

As the day winds down, I count the minutes - the seconds - until the kids' bedtime.

It's Saturday, and bedtime isn't until 8pm.   I feel mildly pleased with myself; Steve is away until tomorrow, and I managed to fill one whole Saturday without any screen time or bored fighting. 

I made a promise to myself this morning, that I would spend the whole day engaged with the kids.   I wouldn't try to clean the house, make jewelry orders, poke around on the internet, or shoo them away as I talk to friends on the phone.  

Today I rooted myself firmly in the present, in their world, instead of asking them to cling to the fringes of mine. 

Now it's 7:45pm, though, and the edginess is creeping in.  I'm desperate for some alone time, and I can't wait until they are tucked into bed so I can curl up on the couch with my book and soak in the silence.

They wriggle into their jammies, brush teeth, and scrounge around for favorite stuffed animals and blankets.  I read a story, fetch first one glass of water and then another, adjust the lighting to perfection, do a monster check, and give equal amounts of kisses and hugs.  It's 8:30pm by the time I finally make it downstairs, exhausted.

I flop on the couch and crack open my book with a contented sigh.   A mere thirty seconds later I hear crying, and Greta shouting, "Mooooom.   Finn's crying, and I can't sleep!"

A white-hot rage flashes through me, races up my legs and arms and into my chest, making my heart pound.   Without moving off the couch, I yell upstairs that they both better go to sleep.   OR ELSE.

Greta falls silent, but Finn won't stop crying.

I storm up the stairs and angrily swing my head into their room, ready to pounce.   Finn is sitting on his bed, his favorite stuffed swan tucked under one arm, and his worn-out blankie under the other, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Momma?" he sniffs pitifully, "will you west wif me?"

I'm so tired and frustrated that I'm shaking, my heart iced over, immune to his tears.    I close my eyes and count to five, and then I say, as calmly as I can, "It's late.  You need to go to sleep, and I have things to do downstairs.   Go to bed, Finn."

He hangs his head, sobbing silently.   "So you won't west wif me?   Just for a minute?" 

But I don't want to!  I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to!!!!   my inner toddler screams.   I was there for you ALL DAY and I'm TIRED.   I just want to read my book!  There's never any time for ME!

Without warning, I'm hit with a memory.    It isn't one specific memory but rather a mosaic of memories, made up of sharp red, craggy black and somber grey: countless moments scurrying away from a crying child - or two - because I had to start drinking, start blurring the sharp edges of my mind, start erasing the fear, start edging away from the center of their love. 

I crawl into bed beside Finn, and he snuggles into me, hiccupping softly.

"Why can't you sleep?" I whisper.    His little ear is bright pink and fuzzy around the edges. 

"I don't know," he sighs.  "I just felt like I needed you."

"It's okay," I reply.  "I'm here."

He nods silently, his eyes already closed.   I run my fingertips up and down his spine, and he reaches around and curls his fingers around my other hand.   His grip is warm and firm.   The room is still; the only sound is Greta's soft snoring as she sleeps.

A few minutes later his grips loosens and his breathing slows.   He is asleep.

I close my eyes, lay my head down next to his, and inhale his salty-sweet boy smell.  

I silently add one more glittering tile to my new mosaic of memories, one that glows with soft blue, sun splashed yellow and warm pink.