Several times this morning, I was startled awake by someone crying. I had hoped it was just Mike weeping in a different voice so I could just chide him with, “How many times have I told you not to watch Beaches before you go to bed?!?! I guess being insensitive to touching the tale of two women learning that they’re not so different after all doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?!?”
Nathan cried at sometime after midnight and again after three. Normally, I respond to his pleas with sweet maternal dulcet tones (at least that’s how I hope my man-voice sounds), but if you disrupt my Colin Firth/Javier Bardem dream—which isn’t nasty, you dirty-minded people, we just have a clam bake with Gidget and Moondoggy! I say Yes Country to Old Men!—this is what you get: “THE HELL, NATHAN!?! THE HELL!”
And Nathan wasn’t exactly clear in what was ailing him. He started angrily pulling at his collar, like he suddenly realized that he had clothes on and how dare his mother stuff him into footed pajamas! This is body is vintage 2006! The nerve! The audacity!
Nathan still sleeps with us, even though his room houses our old queen-sized bed. There’s no way we can cage him into a crib or a toddler bed. There is no turning back. We have really screwed up this one. I can’t let him cry it out since he’ll be crying it out in my ear and especially since he already knows how to shimmy his way down the stairs and to our front door. What’s next? Jimmying our car door open, hotwiring it and subsequently crashing into a Gymboree?
But by virtue of having us as parents, couldn’t we say that we lost this battle a long time ago?