Every time my husband goes away on business I revert to my twelve-year-old self. The one where when my parents finally decided it was okay to leave me home alone for the night by myself, my mother decided to phony phone call me pretending she was the maniacal sender of a chain letter I received in the mail (remember the time before email forwards?) Needless to say, when my parents arrived home from their night out to find me cowering on their bed phone in hand, they felt bad for playing their prank, and my fear of staying home alone began.
Unfortunately, now I have to be a role model to a toddler, and I can’t react at every hiss, boom and whirr that I hear around the house.
That’s why last night, against all good reason, when my son woke up with what purportedly was a nightmare, I invited him into bed with me. I know the comfort of a parent’s (s’) bed when you’re scared. Even when it’s the same parents who play practical jokes on their tween. How could I deny my flesh and blood the same solace?
So we crawled into my king-sized bed and it was all I could do to unwrap his hot little body off of mine. Then there was the hand holding, his hand wrapped around my thumb like when he was a newborn. Sweet, yes, but every time I tried to roll over, I felt the sweaty hand searching for mine through the down covers. Which means I had no way of rolling over without contorting my arm into some ridiculous wrestler move.
Clearly I’m not cut out for co-sleeping.
I fell asleep sometime around 2 a.m. to the sounds of small blocked nasal passages snoring like a truck driver. I was awoken at the unholy hour of 5:15 a.m. by a pat on the back and an innocent question, “mommy, is it day?”
But even though I could barely read the DVR to find a good episode of “Wonder Pets” to put on so I could get a few more moments of shut eye, there was something so sweet and reassuring about waking up next to the younger man of my household and know I’m not totally alone in the middle of the night.
