Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Glass in her bed (redux)

So listen. We're friends, right? I'm just going to level with you.

Things are getting rough up here. As you know, the lovely husband is away on a business trip. He's been gone since last Thursday and the kids are beginning to lose their collective you-know-what.

L has begun stating as if it's fact: Daddy's never going to come home. E won't ever go to sleep. Ever. I left her room at 10:05pm and she was still awake. And G- well, that dude needs to cut his bottom molar, is really what's wrong in that corner of the house.

They always miss him when he's gone and the truth is they have good practice at it, as he does travel a lot. But most of his trips are two or three nights, and by the time this one ends it will have been eight nights, and everyone knows that eight nights = nine days = FOREVER.

(That's in thirty-four-year-old three-year-old math, of course.)

There has been an above-average rate of noteverstill house crying, though I'm proud to report that none of it has been mine. (Yet.) It's just getting

You know? Let's not dwell on it. It's night seven. Which means it's almost day eight, and everyone knows that day eight = T minus one to re-entry, and everyone knows that re-entry means Mama's booking a massage appointment, even if it is Father's Day weekend.

Instead, let me tell you a story about the last time the lovely husband went on an extended trip.

Remember the story of how L has been keeping a photo of her daddy from his childhood by her bedside?  That soothed her thoroughly - for a few business trips. Then the magic wore off. Last long trip, frustrated with his continued absence, she flung that picture frame

and out popped a whole series of photos.

My favorite is top left: Mr. Denim Vest I Won't Smile You Can't Make Me First Grader (c. 1980).

It would be disingenuous to imply that L was soothed, on that night, but she was successfully distracted enough that she forgot to be angry at me for not procuring her father. I told her every story I could think of that I knew about his childhood** and it fascinated her so much to think of him as a kid and not a daddy that the wonderment of that discovery escorted her safely to dreamland.

**Confidential to the lovely husband: except for the one about the rock down the street. I didn't tell her about the rock. You're welcome.

On this night, no stories would soothe her. So I kissed her gently, watched her play with her anklet, and reassured her (and myself) one more time: two more days, love. Two more days. Pin It