Some Days Are Hard

The tag line on this blog is “I write to stop time,” and as I get older, I find I want to stop time more and more. (Actually, I don’t know if that’s true. There were moments I loved and wanted to hold onto when I was younger. Of course, I destroyed all my journals from before the accident and those are the memories I don’t have.)

I have to begin letting go.

Right now, Wee One is in a phase when she tells me, “You need me!” which means, “I need you,” or “I want you here with me.”

I used to say that to my mom. I would say, “I wanna hold you.”

This morning, WO got up early to go potty, but her clock wasn’t green so she was supposed to stay in her room. (Thereby giving me until 7 am to sleep.) This time, she wanted to sleep with me. “You need me!” and I was too tired to fuss. I laid down with her in her bed, and she snuggled so close. Then she put a dozen little kisses on my mouth. Then on my cheek. Then she rubbed her nose on mine like Daniel Tiger and whispered “Ugga Mugga.” Then she adjusted her feet in my legs and said, “I love you, mommy.” Then she whispered, “Mommies come back,” which I repeated to her. (Nana had put her to bed the night before; I had been at belly dance class. God, I pray I always come back.) Then she said, “And daddies come back.” (Cohiba is out of town.) Which is whispered back to her. Then she kissed me again.

You get the picture. She was stalling and wanting to be up, but she was being so cute and lovey about it that I, obviously, didn’t mind. More importantly, she was being relatively still and quiet, which is my request when we’re sleeping together.

Singing Baby Mine is part of our bedtime routine, and I’ve sung it to her every night for four years. Sometimes when I sing it now, I think about singing it to her in Seattle, when she was about six months old. Her whole body fit on my left arm. Her bottom in my hand, her head in my elbow. When I’m holding her now, she can barely put her head on my chest (she really likes to do that.)

Tonight I thought, some day, she won’t want me to sing to her anymore. One day, I’ll hear this song and remember singing it; it won’t be part of my daily routine.

When I got married, there was a photo they took of my mother. She didn’t know they did it, and she wasn’t happy they took it. It was shortly before the ceremony, and she was sobbing into a hanky; her face was so sad. She was mourning. She said she didn’t want me to see that. I was a little annoyed at the time. After all, I still just lived down the street. This wedding wouldn’t change much. And the marriage itself didn’t, but the move to Seattle did, and time passing did.  She was grieving for the time passing.

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Writing all of this triggered a weekend of panic attacks that still has me reeling. I feel like I’m on the edge all the time. I’ll probably talk more about that later. Hugs to everyone.