Last Monday, P.J. left town for a business trip. In Toronto. For a week.
I had been nervous- not about our kids or their transpo or my work or the household in general…but about all of those things. Together. If I had felt frazzled when he was here, what the heck was gonna happen when he was across country borders and on an international calling plan? (Which, if I might be such a jerk to mention, was the plan I reminded him to get for his phone. At 8:3opm. Before his 4am cab ride. Ahem.)
So I did what I always do when I worry about things out of my control- I control the bejesus out of things directly in my line of sight. There were new rules! Toys left on the floor would be thrown out into the cold within five minutes! Potty accidents would result in PullUp diapers being duct-taped to thighs and bottoms and smalls of backs (where pee was known to trickle onto the blankets of people whose beds were invaded at 3am)!
The first hour went wonderfully.
By Hour 2 I realized that, not only were the cavalry not coming, but had they shown they probably just would’ve wanted a sandwich with the “good” cheese and a different episode of The Wild Kratts, too.
We slowly, slowly, slowly found our rhythm. Whether out of respect, fear, or sympathy, kid-specific rooms became slightly more orderly. Bathtimes and meals were quieter affairs- because, honestly, if Dad’s not arriving home at 6pm, what good is a parade? Fanfare? Those noisemakers left over from New Year’s?
Bedtimes became easier and, by 8pm each night, I found that the house was eerily clean and quiet. I had never before realized that the entrance of P.J. signaled the exit of my adrenaline. It was almost like my body and brain now kicked into overdrive and decided, “Hey, if you can’t settle down until everything’s done for the night, we’re gonna do it full throttle and perfectly and earlier than anyone’s ever done it before.”
(Therapy is just a really, really good idea for everyone, you guys.)
But late[r] at night, after the pride at my own efficiency had faded, I found myself being aware. The quietude of the settled house amplified sounds which signaled the things which were probably about to kill me. I found myself straining my ears to be ready to hear the instant the locked doors busted open and set off the house alarm. (Which, really, is not one of those things you have to force yourself into hearing. Your home is either vibrating with sirens or it isn’t.) People walking home from the corner bar were most likely drunken people about to pass out in our yard or- worse yet- pee on our windows and, what? I was supposed to do the Gran Turino “get the hell off my lawn” thing on my own? THAT’S P.J.’S BIT! I found myself ill-equipped to deal with the terrifying sensory things which were usually mollified by a nudge into P.J.’s sleeping form. And friends- true story- he doesn’t even have to do anything to mollify me. Just knowing that the snoring guy beside me existed in the same breathing space as my whispered complaint did the trick. The imminent burglar was his future scuffle, now.
I sleep so poorly when all future scuffles are my own.
And each time a small child of his (always his, in the middle of the night) wandered into my room, I found myself bolting awake in terror. It didn’t matter if they were poking my nose with their own or peeing on my pillow (both True Life occurrences between the days of January 12-16, 2015), I found myself baffled- BAFFLED- that this had been okayed. Me being in charge all day and all night and all day again and on and on and on.
I spent entire hours aching to call P.J. on the phone.
Mostly so I could call and whine about that morning’s preschool drop-off. But still.
Dinnertimes came and went with nary a “get a load of this guy” locked eye or inside joke concerning sippy cups. When my feet were cold at night, they were just- cold. And no one referred to me “Keely” for hours on end. “Mom.” Just “Mom.”
I know. I know.
But on Friday he came home. The energy changed and volumes exploded and children were euphoric at meal times once again. The house instantly became cluttered with the kinds of things signifying grownups and kids live there and go out and come back and have done things in the world to show for it.
This weekend found me decidedly less efficient, energetic, and in control. And I couldn’t be any happier if I tried.
Because last night was the quietest night I can ever remember not hearing. Actually, I have no idea if that’s true or not. But what’s important is that I heard none of whatever was going on that I failed to hear. Because I fell asleep with P.J. holding my hand.
And was woken up a moment later when he lurched away and thwacked his arm into the headboard. But it was that safe n’ cozy kind of sleep twitching, you know? Things are right again.
And not one person peed on us.
Everything is wonderful.
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