Three years ago at just about this time of year I was beginning to pull my hair out and forget really basic things like my children’s names and my PIN numbers, it was always an adventure to go to the ATM and realize I hadn’t the foggiest idea of how to get funds out of that machine. Part of it was my silly winter work schedule but the other part was that Devon was not sleeping through the night; he preferred waking and nursing every two hours to a restful 12 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Devon slept in our room and it was affecting Matt as well as me. So he ordered a sleep book off of Amazon, handed it to me and told me to get to it. I read it, handed it back and told him to get to it. And we did. It was all about adhering to schedules and riding out the crying fits from the crib. It took about two weeks of tears and nail biting, on all fronts, but in the end Devon was able to hold out until about 5:30 in the morning for his boob fest and mommy milk.
For the past three years I have thought about those horrible two weeks and that damn book whenever Devon is having a fit in his crib. More often than not I can do it but occasionally I fall for his pitiful wails and open the door to his needs. Tonight was one of those nights. About 15 minutes after I tucked him in and repeated the multitude of required good nights I heard the crying. The crying escalated to wails which then grew into screams. And not just any scream, the scream of terror. The scream that means there is either a very large spider on his face or that some unseen force has come and stolen his softie dog. Knowing that sound was wrong and causing his tender aorta to vibrate against its titanium sleeve, an event I wish to prevent, I opened the door and asked Devon if he needed anything. In a tear filled voice he shook out, “M-m-m-y shirt is b-b-b-bad! It all bad, M-m-mai-mai. Fix it, p-p-please.” I peered over his crib and discovered that I had somehow buttoned up his pajama top unevenly. Not only were the buttons all wrong but, sin of all sins, I had left the top one but undone. Neglected. Open. Incomplete. Wrong. I could so easily imagine my white haired child fingering everything in his reach as he prepared to sleep. Two softie dogs under his right arm: check. The edge of his blue quilt flat against his underarms: check. His assortment of cars snuggled safely against his ribs: check. That random Dr. Seuss book on the other side of his ribs: check. His car pajamas perfectly flat on his tummy: NO! Not! Bad! Very bad! Unbuttoned, out of alignment! And the only thing to do then is to scream. Scream until the troops arrive and fix the evil.
I understand. I have the same sort of check list each night. And if I could yell for my mommy to come and fix the horrors of my uneven quilt edges, I so would. On the other hand I would deeply appreciate it if I didn’t easily understand Devon’s neuroses.
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Oh, I totally get that too. My mom, her sisters, my sister…and now my daughter. Petunia isn’t as bad as the rest of us, but she is very particular about certain things. And I totally get it.
OMG, I so get this. I am as neurotic as they come about stuff like this. My kids were too and sadly, I always “got it” too. My middle and youngest grandchildren are this way also. Anything wet or a sock out of alignment. I sometimes wonder why we are like this. But then it scares me so I just accept it.
I don’t get it, because I can flop down into a pile of crumbs, notice they are there, mentally shrug, roll over in the crumbs, and go to sleep.
But I have children who certainly do understand, so you have my heartfelt sympathy.
If I could curl up in crumbs I certainly would. I can’t even wear rings because just the thought of something hindering my fingers makes me hyperventilate.