Tag Archives: connection

Sleeping Arrangements

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My heart is tender tonight.  I just tucked Mattie into his “own bed” for the first time (a futon mattress dragged into the corner of our room).  In his first few years of life he has spent the night in a variety of places, some stranger than others  — an infant car seat, a swing, a rocking bassinet, a co-sleeper — but most nights he has slept with us in our King size bed.  This is what has worked best for our family.  There was an earlier period when our mattress was on the floor and the futon was next to it, but Ken usually slept on it then. Our room is not large, and is essentially one giant bed with the two mattresses covering the floor.

As Mattie has been growing bigger we’ve talked about a bed of his own — still in our room, we’ve reassured him — but he hasn’t been interested.  I brought it up again last night, as we’d been waking each other up with all the tossing and turning on each of our parts, and this time he got excited about it.  The excitement carried through to today, and we spent the better part of the day cleaning and re-arranging.  He just fell asleep in his very own bed for the first time, and I’m tearful.  While it is a change that will likely be good for all of us, there is grief too.  She accompanies joy, change, growth.  They all reside in my heart space together tonight.

What follows is a poem that I wrote a few months back about sleeping with Mattie.  It feels appropriate that tonight is the night I finally share it…

 

It is the middle of the night

and I wake to feel his little foot

curling into the crease where my thigh meets my hip.

It nestles in and rests there

while we both fall

back to sleep.

 

Later, in the wee hours of the morning,

I feel his toes exploring the space under

my left shoulder blade.

He is lying horizontally

across the expanse of our bed

with his head resting near his papa’s.

This is about the time when the  l-o-n-g,

s-l-o-w process of waking up begins,

and while he flip-flops over me from one side to the next,

I squeeze my eyes shut tight and silently pray-hope-wish-with-all-my-might

that he settles back in for just…a bit…longer.

 

A few minutes later,

(my silent pleas unanswered),

he sits up and looks around through eyes half-open

until his gaze lands on me.

 

Momma…located.

I take a deep breath and sigh a tired sigh,

as I accept my fate and surrender to whatever might come next

(sweet snuggles and stories?

an onslaught of instant demands?

one never knows…).

 

My boy scoots over to me and rests his head

against mine,  then draws up his knees and tucks himself up tight

under the alcove of my chin, momentarily.  

I breathe in his sweet,  satisfying, oh-so-familiar

baby-boy-child smell.

 

He pulls away only to nuzzle his head,

then his cheek, against my cheek —

the way a kitten might nuzzle its momma.

 

While I am melting in the blissful sweetness of it all,

he tops it off with a kiss — planted on my cheek — and then

(the grand finale of this first act of the day)

he whispers softly, “I love you, momma.”

 

I am reduced to a puddle of love.

This is it, I think.  This is what matters most in all the world.

I squeeze him tight, and tell him I love him too.

 

This kind of love,

multiplied,

could heal this world.

I just know it.

 

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Passing on the Empathy Gene

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When little Maggie first heard the story of Little Bo Peep and how she lost her sheep, she cried. When she was just two years old, she was gifted with a small, sweet cup with illustrations of Little Bo Peep and said sheep. Every time little Maggie saw this cup, she cried. She was so concerned for Little Bo, imagining how sad she must have been without her beloved sheep. Her momma had to put the cup away, because it upset her so.

This was the first indication of the depth of empathy and compassion that little Maggie felt. It is the hallmark story told by her momma to describe Maggie’s sensitivity from the very start.

Fast forward thirty years or so and momma Maggie is watching Curious George with her son, Mattie, also two years old. It is the Zoo Night episode and as usual Curious George is busy being curious – this time resulting in getting locked inside the zoo after dark. As he tries to find his way out he winds up finding the zookeeper’s keys and opening the doors to various animal cages; there are some silly altercations but he also gets chased by a rhino and meets a roaring lion. We talk about all of this as it happens, but it is just a bit too much for little Mattie. He gets a most concerned look on his face and begins to cry – in earnest – and through his crumpled face and tears, gasps to his momma:

“What happened?! Where did his papa go?!?”

They stop the video and talk about what’s happening. Mattie wants to watch more, but again cries, so concerned about the little monkey.   Momma Maggie is reminded of herself and her reaction to Little Bo Peep, seeing her own sensitivity to the circumstances of others in her son. It has been passed on, she realizes.

But she doesn’t discourage Mattie from watching Curious George. He asks to watch it again, and he cries, and they talk about it. Then he doesn’t want to watch this particular episode for a few days. In the meantime, he asks regularly about what happened, even wanting his momma to tell friends and family about it. Momma Maggie recounts the whole story again and again, patiently describing the plot in detail while also including Mattie in discussing his concern about what was sad or scary.

Eventually, he asks to watch Zoo Night again, and his momma asks if he’s sure. This time, they get through the whole episode with no tears, talking about it all the while. And Mattie is overjoyed when George is reunited with his papa (the man with the yellow hat) at the end.

Now Mattie watches this episode over and over AND OVER again.   He also likes to talk about what he would get to do if he were locked in the zoo at night (with his momma or papa, of course!).

*****

I can only imagine what has occurred inside Mattie through all of this. All I know is that I have helped him make sense of it. We processed his feelings together, so gently, again and again, and the result seems to be an internalized acceptance of the whole story. He watched something sad and scary happen; after talking about it enough it wasn’t sad or scary anymore. This seems to have built trust in our relationship and new confidence in Mattie.

While I’ve always viewed my own sensitivity and empathy as positive traits, I’ve also had a tendency to wear my heart on my sleeve a little too freely, and I’m not always good at recognizing the line between where I end and someone else begins. Perhaps I can help Mattie to see these tendencies as gifts, but also to build muscles of resiliency and create self-protective boundaries (though I’m still learning and building them myself).

Or maybe this is just an opportunity to witness my own compassionate response to my sensitive little boy – and to remember to save some of that compassion for myself.

Coming To My Senses

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Oy.  My brain is tired and full, straining to remember and hold onto all the details that need to be coordinated over the next 3 weeks to submit 20 documents to the federal government on behalf of 8 clients.  I’m writing all day long, telling other people’s stories in the body of application templates — researching, analyzing, calculating, categorizing, strategizing – using my left brain far more than I’d like to.  I feel stressed and overwhelmed, like there’s too much work to be done in not enough time and the pressure is getting to me.

Especially since I’m trying to do it all – to work as much as possible AND be with Mattie as much as possible.   The result is that I feel as though I’m failing at both.  And the shift from being with Mattie most of the time to working most of the time has been tough.  I’m longing for this to be over so that I can return to spending my days with him and clear my mind to allow it to fill again with creative ideas, to play, and to write my own story.

Lately I feel as though all my senses are dulled in this all-consuming singular focus on my work.   I spend each day in our cluttered office: typing, thinking, talking on the phone, making lists, crossing things off lists, and sending email upon email upon email.  Then when I can’t stand it anymore, I get up from my black swivel chair, brush away the accumulated crumbs scattering my desk, and collect my plates & cups from the meals of the day.

I walk down the stairs that are increasingly cluttered with clean folded laundry, dog hair & other random items that (I cringe to admit) currently includes a box of brightly colored wedding thank you cards that were written and never sent — rediscovered nearly 6 years later in a recent cleaning frenzy making room for more Mattie gear.    If you are one of those people who never received their thank you card, please receive this as my formal apology!   Oh, the guilt!

I set aside the guilt, deciding to leave the collection of things in their places for one more day and complete my descent, unlatching the baby gate at the base of the old staircase.  I push open the shiny green curtain in the doorway to the living room & barely have time to set my dirty dishes on the seat of the oak foyer bench before Mattie notices my entrance.

And then I am his.

He reaches for me, needing me.  If I am lucky, I will be greeted by the two sweetest syllables I know, “ma-ma”.  But more likely, once in my arms he will just scramble to lift my shirt, desperate to nurse & reconnect after the long day apart.  We’ll settle into our spot on the worn leather sofa or a stool in the kitchen (if Papa is cooking) and drink each other in, skin to skin. I might sigh, overcome by his beauty, his sweet pudgy, sticky face and big brown eyes locked on mine.  His fingers are now busy exploring – stroking, twisting, and pinching all over.  He may pause nursing periodically to look at me intently and say “up” and “down” (pointing with emphasis), or “woof” or “naaa”.  And with a smile, I’ll confirm, “yes, that’s up, and down”; then look over to our dog “yes, there’s Girl,  she says woof”; and then locate his stuffed plush lamb strewn on the floor; “and yes, there’s your lambie, naaa”.  And he’ll return to nursing contentedly, satisfied that I’ve heard and understood him.

Maybe my senses aren’t totally dulled after all – I’m just saving them for this moment, letting them all slowly flood back in until I’m fully present.  Because this is when I need that awareness most, to engage fully in this intimate conversation between mother & son reunited, rooted in the sensual exploration of one another and the world around us.   This is what I’m living for these days.  This is what’s getting me through.  Yes, it’ll do.