An OLD post from 2010. He still puts himself to bed at age 14, whenever we say we're going to bed. If we're staying up late, he wants to lay on my lap on the couch until he starts to doze off, and then will dutifully haul himself upstairs around 10.
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We have 2 dogs, our morning pet and our bedtime pet. Morning pet bounds out of bed at the crack of dawn, full of energy and ready to play or cuddle. As the day rolls on, she runs out of energy until she puts herself back to bed every night at 11:00.
Our bedtime pet draaaaags herself out of her bed in the morning, waddles outside to do her business, and then goes back to bed until noon. She picks up energy steadily throughout the day and around 9:00 or 10:00 she wants cuddles and loves.
A dear friend of mine recently blogged about how her son is having trouble getting to bed during summer break.
It made me think about my other little morning pet, Andrei.
Andrei used to have a lot of bedtime anxiety. He would beg, whine, stall, stall, whine, beg, and repeat until I would just be at my wits end. When he outgrew that, he moved into a phase where he would wake up at about 3:00 am and crawl into bed with us.
What worked for him was one time we just decided to cave and let him stay up really late. We made a deal and said that he could stay awake as long as he wanted as long as he kept lights off and stayed out of our room so we could sleep. We went to bed at 11:00. He lay there in the dark with no one to talk to until he fell asleep. He hated it. He said it was too lonely. Now he asks me every night when I'm going to bed and subtracts 2 hours and puts himself to bed. Obviously I do the tuck in thing, but all I have to say is "It's 9:15. I'm going to bed at 11:00" and he rushes through pj's, teeth, drinks, prayers, etc... no drama.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
The Valley of the Shadow of Death
This is the post I can't write. But I'm going to try.
To understand death you have to see it. I've lost plenty of loved ones. I've watched tiny caskets lowered into impossibly small graves. I've held my grandmother's hand mere days before her passing, when death was so close it hung in the air like her rose petal perfume. I've stared him down a number of times, but never held his hand until 2:45 a.m. on June 15th, 2013.
It was bad. We knew it was bad. The infection had snuck up out of nowhere, and by the time we had a diagnosis it was already too late. I knew that, but we opted for emergency surgery. The candle of my first born son's life was flickering out, and I wasn't ready to let him die. But his belly was black, hard, and bloated. He only weighed 560 grams. The odds were grim.
Fight, baby. Fight! I begged him. I begged God. I begged the doctors. He was eight days old. I drugged myself into a coma with my C-Section pain meds. I couldn't stop my brain, though. My conscious mind knew what I was witnessing so I sat there, conscious, but too drugged to do anything except stare and whisper silent prayers that God would let him stay, or take me with him.
I loved him the most. I feel ashamed to admit this but I did. Oh how I love my other ducklings- so much it hurts- but this one was the one who slept for six months beneath my heart.
During our gender ultrasound they told me Baby A was a girl. My heart leapt and sang with joy- I knew her already, the little girl with ringlets and bright brown eyes that twinkled when she smiled. I'd spoken to her in my dreams for 11 years.
Baby B is a...
Please don't say boy. Please don't say boy. Please don't say boy. I know what happens to baby boys in my family.
... Boy.
My heart sank in my chest. I gulped back hot tears. I tried to be happy but the spirit confirmed what I already knew. "Henry needs a mission companion."
So for two more months I begged God to let me know him just in case my worst fears came true. Those prayers were answered. Baby B sat high on my ribs near my heart. He woke up every morning with hiccups. His sister kicked him angrily for disturbing her. He danced to Paul Simon, Neil Young, Bob Marley & the Beatles. He would kick my hand when I placed it over him and when my blood sugar dropped and he got hungry. He was so joyful I often forgot to be afraid. He was as bright as the sun. I started calling him Robert after my grandfather, the war hero.
I let them saw me in half to get him out safely. He cried when they pulled him from my womb, even though one pound babies can't cry.
In the NICU he wouldn't sleep unless I sang to him. "Don't worry about a thing- you know every little thing is gonna be alright. "
He burned up that dark hospital with the brilliance of his soul. He was light. Looking at him was like looking into the face of God. He was so impossibly tiny and absolutely perfect. "He doesn't know how small he is, " they told me. "He'll be home before his due date."
But seven days later the light began to dim. The doctors told me he was fine. They hadn't known his light like I had, and couldn't tell it was beginning to flicker.
"Oh God! No! You can't take him. No! No! I can't let you! Not yet... not ever."
I cried in the pump room. I screamed really. I tore out my hair. Beat my chest.
The doctors told me it was just a cold. I knew better.
That night he stopped breathing.
NEC. Ruptured intestines. Sepsis.
They revived him. Surgery.
That horrible night and day waiting for what I had been prepared would come, unable to tell anyone (least of all his father) that I'd been preparing for months.
They let us sleep in a NICU room. That's not a good sign. I braced myself and vowed to make it beautiful for him. I could make room for my pain later. Right now I had to help the one I loved the most not be afraid of crossing over. I wanted the last sound in his ears to be music, not tears.
At midnight I told him I was ready, and he could decide for himself what to do.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
2:45 a.m.
"It's time."
"We can prolong his life and wait until his body gives out, or unplug him and let him go now, but there's nothing else to do and his body is failing. His kidneys have stopped, his lungs are filling with fluid, and his heart is starting to go."
Unplug him. Take the tubed out, wrap him up, and let me hold him once while he's still living.
Daddy said goodbye. I told him how proud we were, and how glad we were that he was ours. I told him I'd sing his songs for the rest of my life. J
I knew he wanted to hear my heartbeat once more, so I lay his head on my chest.
"Is this love? Is this love? Is this love? Is this love that I'm feeling? I wanna know, wanna knooow..."
He died in my arms while I sang his favorite song. I died too.
Then two days later I heard his voice. In the indescribable haze of a mother's grief I had gotten out of bed, dressed myself, and had gotten in the car to go to the hospital to see Baby A, clinging desperately to life in her incubator.
I turned up the radio in order to shut off my conscious thought which had been tasked with planning a funeral for a one pound boy and there he was! Paul Simon singing to me "Goodbye Rosie, Queen of Corona, I know where I'm going but I don't know when."
As hot tears stung my eyes Paul McCartney sang
To understand death you have to see it. I've lost plenty of loved ones. I've watched tiny caskets lowered into impossibly small graves. I've held my grandmother's hand mere days before her passing, when death was so close it hung in the air like her rose petal perfume. I've stared him down a number of times, but never held his hand until 2:45 a.m. on June 15th, 2013.
It was bad. We knew it was bad. The infection had snuck up out of nowhere, and by the time we had a diagnosis it was already too late. I knew that, but we opted for emergency surgery. The candle of my first born son's life was flickering out, and I wasn't ready to let him die. But his belly was black, hard, and bloated. He only weighed 560 grams. The odds were grim.
Fight, baby. Fight! I begged him. I begged God. I begged the doctors. He was eight days old. I drugged myself into a coma with my C-Section pain meds. I couldn't stop my brain, though. My conscious mind knew what I was witnessing so I sat there, conscious, but too drugged to do anything except stare and whisper silent prayers that God would let him stay, or take me with him.
I loved him the most. I feel ashamed to admit this but I did. Oh how I love my other ducklings- so much it hurts- but this one was the one who slept for six months beneath my heart.
During our gender ultrasound they told me Baby A was a girl. My heart leapt and sang with joy- I knew her already, the little girl with ringlets and bright brown eyes that twinkled when she smiled. I'd spoken to her in my dreams for 11 years.
Baby B is a...
Please don't say boy. Please don't say boy. Please don't say boy. I know what happens to baby boys in my family.
... Boy.
My heart sank in my chest. I gulped back hot tears. I tried to be happy but the spirit confirmed what I already knew. "Henry needs a mission companion."
So for two more months I begged God to let me know him just in case my worst fears came true. Those prayers were answered. Baby B sat high on my ribs near my heart. He woke up every morning with hiccups. His sister kicked him angrily for disturbing her. He danced to Paul Simon, Neil Young, Bob Marley & the Beatles. He would kick my hand when I placed it over him and when my blood sugar dropped and he got hungry. He was so joyful I often forgot to be afraid. He was as bright as the sun. I started calling him Robert after my grandfather, the war hero.
I let them saw me in half to get him out safely. He cried when they pulled him from my womb, even though one pound babies can't cry.
In the NICU he wouldn't sleep unless I sang to him. "Don't worry about a thing- you know every little thing is gonna be alright. "
He burned up that dark hospital with the brilliance of his soul. He was light. Looking at him was like looking into the face of God. He was so impossibly tiny and absolutely perfect. "He doesn't know how small he is, " they told me. "He'll be home before his due date."
But seven days later the light began to dim. The doctors told me he was fine. They hadn't known his light like I had, and couldn't tell it was beginning to flicker.
"Oh God! No! You can't take him. No! No! I can't let you! Not yet... not ever."
I cried in the pump room. I screamed really. I tore out my hair. Beat my chest.
The doctors told me it was just a cold. I knew better.
That night he stopped breathing.
NEC. Ruptured intestines. Sepsis.
They revived him. Surgery.
That horrible night and day waiting for what I had been prepared would come, unable to tell anyone (least of all his father) that I'd been preparing for months.
They let us sleep in a NICU room. That's not a good sign. I braced myself and vowed to make it beautiful for him. I could make room for my pain later. Right now I had to help the one I loved the most not be afraid of crossing over. I wanted the last sound in his ears to be music, not tears.
At midnight I told him I was ready, and he could decide for himself what to do.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
2:45 a.m.
"It's time."
"We can prolong his life and wait until his body gives out, or unplug him and let him go now, but there's nothing else to do and his body is failing. His kidneys have stopped, his lungs are filling with fluid, and his heart is starting to go."
Unplug him. Take the tubed out, wrap him up, and let me hold him once while he's still living.
Daddy said goodbye. I told him how proud we were, and how glad we were that he was ours. I told him I'd sing his songs for the rest of my life. J
I knew he wanted to hear my heartbeat once more, so I lay his head on my chest.
"Is this love? Is this love? Is this love? Is this love that I'm feeling? I wanna know, wanna knooow..."
He died in my arms while I sang his favorite song. I died too.
Then two days later I heard his voice. In the indescribable haze of a mother's grief I had gotten out of bed, dressed myself, and had gotten in the car to go to the hospital to see Baby A, clinging desperately to life in her incubator.
I turned up the radio in order to shut off my conscious thought which had been tasked with planning a funeral for a one pound boy and there he was! Paul Simon singing to me "Goodbye Rosie, Queen of Corona, I know where I'm going but I don't know when."
As hot tears stung my eyes Paul McCartney sang
On the day that I die, I'd like jokes to be told
And stories of old to be rolled out like carpets
That children have played on and laid on
While listening to stories of old
And stories of old to be rolled out like carpets
That children have played on and laid on
While listening to stories of old
At the end of the end
It's the start of a journey to a much better place
And a much better place would have to be special
No reason to cry
It's the start of a journey to a much better place
And a much better place would have to be special
No reason to cry
On the day that I die, I'd like bells to be rung
And songs that were sung to be hung out like blankets
That lovers have played on and laid on
While listening to songs that were sung
And songs that were sung to be hung out like blankets
That lovers have played on and laid on
While listening to songs that were sung
And the music kept coming. It still does. Whenever I start to doubt or feel afraid that I've lost him for good, I hear him singing to me and I remember how it felt to look into the gates of Heaven, and how it feels to hold the hands of Death himself.
It never stops hurting. I will never be the same. But I owe both of my babies my very best, and when I miss him too much I always seem to find him again. I am sure we'll recognize each other on the day that my work here is through and he comes to get me to take me home with him. Until then, I'll keep singing.
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