This is not my usual writing. This will seem raw and real. This is my life right now. As many things that I am joyful for, as much as I focus on the positivity of our weeks, the following is the real deal. And I need to put it out there. Thanks for reading.
I see it happening. I see every week the changes. I watch you struggle to find a rhythm. I watch as you navigate through your day with frustration and anxiety of the unknown. I see you hesitant to leave the house for errands or play dates, for fear of leaving the "blue house" and mama for days. I see your once joyful, bubbly, carefree self change to a sullen, aloof, vacant, exhausted little being. I watch as you tiredly collapse into my arms before bed with a worried look and say, "Mama, I want to stay at the blue house."
I try to engage you in activities. I try to calm your aching belly. I wipe the tears from your eyes when you are frustrated and angry. I try to pull you closer when you are pulling yourself away from me. I see how scared you are. I see how you look at me; as if I'm about to leave you again when you beg me to stay. I see you turn away from your food. I hear you at night when you wake up and need extra cuddles. I witness your play changing; I see you turning away from your favorite games and instead spending all your time wrapped up in a blanket on the floor, tucking your beloved animals and toys inside with you, hoping to create your own little nest where you are safe.
I see how your behavior changes three days into our week. I see your old self coming back. The smiles, the giggles, the cooperation, the interest in food and play, your regular sleep routine. I watch as your slow moving body suddenly becomes filled with kinetic energy and you are bouncing on the couch while saying, "Mama! Come bounce with me!" I see you finally eating a meal. I feel your tiny arms wrap around my neck and I feel your slobbery lips against mine. I hear you say, "Mama, I love you."
I come downstairs on our last morning together to find you and Sasa under a "tent" you have made out of chairs and a blanket. I hear you call to me to join in the fun. I see the smoothie you two made on the table and the half eaten piece of toast. I find you dressed in all stripes with your favorite pants on backwards. I join in the fun before we start getting ready.
Then it's time to pack your bag. I see you look at that ominous blue backpack of yours. I see the smile turn to a frown as you crawl back under your tent. I pack your Alex bear, your blanky, your new Charlotte bunny. I say it's time to get ready and you yell, "No!" I struggle to get your shoes on. You wriggle out of your jacket, but somehow I get your arms back in. You want to stay at the blue house. But you have two houses, I say. You will have lots of fun this weekend, and I will see you on Monday after school. Your eyes look down to the floor. You pop your binky in your mouth and reach your arms up for me to carry you. I do.
When you leave, sometimes it's a struggle. Sometimes there is sobbing, clinging, and begging. Sometimes you go with a better attitude and I watch as you walk out the door, knowing it will be four days until I see you again. Four days. Four days is a lifetime to you, I know. I know that when you come back, we will once again pick up the pieces. You will vent. You will show me your frustration and sadness. I will do my best to comfort you. I will hold you and read to you and sing to you. I will wrap you up in your little nest and watch as you bury your head under the blanket. I will be there for you so you can find yourself again; that joyful little bundle of smiles. I will watch as you find it, only to have you leave me again right after. And then we start it all over again.
I pick up the pieces after you leave. I pick up each toy and book, shirt and shoes, and place them carefully back where they belong. I listen to the quiet house with no little footsteps running about. I silently weep for you. I go upstairs and make your bed. I bury my head in your pillow and breathe deep. I can still smell you. It makes my mama heart feel a little better. I pick my head up to see the spot my tears soaked and know that it will dry before you return.
I moan, I cry, I call your name. I sit helpless on the couch. I look around at the tidy room and decide I liked it better with the toys strewn about. It means that you are still with me. I am not sad that you are away. I know you are probably having fun. I know that your belly might be happy now and you've finally reached that joyful place again, so you'll probably be okay. I weep because I am helpless. I weep because I see you struggle and it's as if I can't do anything about it. I have no voice. I've never had a voice. I know this schedule now is not working for you. I know you are hurting. My insides are ripped out every time I see you go, knowing you will not come back yourself. I feel sick to my stomach knowing that I can not change it; that I have no power to stand up and say, "But I'm her mother. She is a part of me. I see her every week hurting more and more and we need to do something about it." But there is no "we" anymore. All I want is what is best for my baby. I know it can be better. And I know how it can be better. But he won't listen. He refuses to see the truth. I feel like I'm screaming, yelling, crying out for anyone to hear me, but no one does.
So week after week, I will continue to pick up the pieces. I will continue to watch as you struggle more and more. I will be continually shot down when I try to express what you so obviously need and can't quite communicate. I will continue to get buried under the power and control of someone else. I will sit by, helpless with no voice, knowing all I can do is hold you close when you are here; try to put you back together again so you can be your happy little self. I want to protect you. I want to tuck you under my wing and make sure you will always be okay.
And now? Now I turn over my voice. I do what I least wanted to do: fight. I let go of my need and desire to be kind and caring and thoughtful and friendly. And I give in to the selfish, immature game that is now. And I will continue to pick up the pieces, week by week. Because you are my baby. And I love you with all my heart and more.
