Not a bad way to start the day

I’m in the bathroom this morning and I hear two little mammals whisper-giggling and crawl into my bed. I finish, flush, wash my hands, and return to the bed for a quick snuggle.

 

We goof off for a few minutes, and then I announce that I have to get into the shower.

 

6 year old: WHAT? Why? You just showered???

 

Me: (looking at him like he’s crazy) What do you mean?!?

 

Him: (emphatic) You showered!!!

 

Me: Is my hair wet? Does my body smell clean? Are my teeth minty fresh? What makes you think I SHOWERED???

 

Him: I heard the water!

 

Me: You heard the WATER from the SINK!!! I WASHED MY HANDS! Like all normal people are supposed to do when they are done going to the bathroom and wiping their bums!!! NORMAL people do their business, WIPE their BUMS, and THEN.WASH.THEIR.HANDS!!! (DO YOU KNOW???)

 

He peels into giggles…

 

Him: (Mischievously) Oh… (dramatic pause) I did not know that.

 

Mommy and Big brother join him in cracking up.

 

POST SCRIPT 1: What is wrong with this child that he thinks I shower in under 60 seconds? Has he ever even MET ME before???

POST SCRIPT 2: I love when they get the joke! And they take the ribbing I hand out in a good natured way!

 

#learningtolaughatyourselfisimportant

#mustbedoingsomethingright

#mykidsarefunny

---

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Crusts

I’m in my kitchen cutting crusts off one turkey and cheese sandwich and one peanut butter and jelly sandwich when for about the 143^rd consecutive time during this exercise I think to myself, “THIS is something that I definitely would not be doing if it weren’t for the divorce.”

I’m referring to “cutting the crusts off,” NOT “making the lunch”. But you should know that every time this thought sweeps through my consciousness, the very next instant I imagine my ex-wife, in some other part of the universe inexplicably recoiling, still angry about the percentage of lunches she made compared to me. She really hated making lunches. We used to joke about how horrible it was. Now, I wish I made more of them instead of her.  Not because I think it would have saved the marriage, but because it doesn’t really bother me that much. I sometimes wonder if it bothers her less now that she has left? If it was perhaps the marriage and not the lunches that drove her crazy… but then I shake the questions out of my head and try to stay present: Soft white bread, one likes mayo, the other one gags on it.  The little mayo lover takes his with cheese. The big brother rejects most deli meats even though he’s a proud carnivore. I use the same knife, but wipe it off on paper towels in between ingredients to avoid flavor contamination.

I have a few activities related to mothering that have become downright meditative for me.  Bathing my kids was like that when they were younger. It was the best part of my day. I learned so much about them and poured so much of my love right onto them in those 10-20 mins a day. It almost never felt like a chore. But now that they are approaching 7 and 9, I don’t mind telling you, it’s getting a little weird. They are right in between “complete youthful innocence” and “about to sprout hair”.  They’ve started asking me to wash them in certain places and particular ways that make me cock my head (pun intended) to one side and say, “No, I think that’s got to be your department from now on, my hairless friend.”

As their bodies have gotten longer and heavier, they’ve developed ever more complicated opinions and preferences (everything from soap to water temperature, length of soaking to the color and texture of the towel) Bathing them has become less enjoyable for me. But other precious rituals have evolved…

One morning, Milo and Jake inexplicably started helping me put on my jewelry. At first I had no idea what was happening. “UM, GIVE ME MY RINGS!!” I nearly huffed at them. I was used to grabbing my bracelets and watch and 5 rings and slipping them over my fingers and wrists as we raced down the stairs. But this particular morning it was with a “Can I help? Here, let me do this for you?” kind of expression that Jake slipped the watch onto my left wrist and fastened it. Milo stretched my two silver bracelets over the other wrist. They divided the rings and as each held one to me, I offered the finger on which I preferred to wear it. I explained the order of the three rings I stacked on the ring finger of my right hand and they nodded, committing it to memory.  We seem to be ALWAYS in motion in the morning. RACING, rushing, and (more frequently than I care to admit) I am barking instructions, encouragement, and directives like a drum major. But that morning some things shifted.  First it was my realization that I didn’t have to race through this activity. We actually had plenty of time to stand still and do this together. Then, I guess I started daydreaming: I saw a glimpse of my little boys as the men they might be one day, offering the sweet intimacy of “Here, let me do that for you... That thing that you always do effortlessly… I’m watching you because I love you, and I want to slow it down and be with you while you do it.” I swear, one of them had two different socks on and the other one had dried toothpaste all over his face, but I could feel the heaviness and simultaneous grace of how quickly they will turn into men.

They were proud when it was done. I giggled at all they thought they’d accomplished. And the fact that this went down without any bickering or whining about who gets to do which piece of jewelry was its own little miracle. For about a month, they did this every morning we were together. I tried hard not to “require it” as it had instantly become one of my favorite things.  If they forgot, I would wait to put my jewelry on until they were in the room and sloooooooooowwwwwwwly start until they jumped in, “LET US DO IT!!!”

“Oh, okay,” I’d reply as nonchalantly as possible. (Don’t hate the player, hate the game!)

Since the divorce, I sometimes watch these two and overthink my parenting like a crazy hawk who no longer trusts her instincts: “Should I dive down and grab some veggies to feed the little birds? Maybe mice and chipmunks aren’t best for them right now???” It’s hard not to second guess yourself in even the most ideal circumstances.

One of my problems is, I believe in tough parenting. I believe in accountability. I believe that if my kids don’t hate me on at least a semi-regular basis, I might be doing something wrong. I believe that we have sort of started raising our children so they couldn’t find their way out of an uninflated parachute, for all the panicking they would be doing when that thing softly landed on their heads. I want my children to learn how to problem-solve; how not to choose only the most flawless piece of fruit because they might lose their mind if asked to chew around a “soft spot” on an otherwise perfectly good apple or banana.  I want to nurture them in such a way that they face challenges with confidence, because it is hardwired in them that when you fail passionately, it is way more fantastic and praiseworthy than success that required no effort; I want them to develop a certain tolerance for pain and discomfort. (YES! YOU HEARD THAT RIGHT!!! I do want them to be able to feel and deal with pain!!!) I mean you get me, right??? I just don’t want them to be totally disoriented or devastated when they discover CRUSTS on their sandwiches.

Still… It’s a quandary. And hopefully I have time if this is a parental mis-step, but… I love them. And they live in two homes right now; and I fight the good fight as often as I can, but when I’m making those sandwiches, I can’t help it… at least for now, when they open up their lunch box in the middle of the day, I want them to look at that sandwich and think “That’s what I’m talking about! YES!”

Cutting those crusts off for them…right now… it seems like the least I could do.

 ---------------

Cross posted on NapTime Radio blog

Today is my mom's bday. Nancy W. is such a good Nana, but not because she loves these babies with all of her heart (which of course she does) or because she's so incredibly wise, intuitive, and smart (though she really is)... She's an amazing nana bc of the devotion and respect and admiration and love that she POURS onto her daughters. Even though my sister and I have built a vast network of friends and contacts who we rely on and live alongside, she's still the one we run to when our knees are skinned or our pride is bruised, when our friends or loves "fail us" or our brains feel scrambled by competing demands and priorities.

Based on who she's always been to me, it shouldn't surprise me in the least that she's humble and complimentary of me when I come to her for advice... That she's willing and able to care for and protect me (not necessarily by sweeping in and "fixing" things for me) but by keeping a safe space for me to admit I sometimes feel beaten up and can't handle it all. She reminds me it's hard. Encourages me to be patient with myself. Shoos me away from perfectionist standards. Blesses me with some version of "I know you've got this... There is nothing that you can't handle." She tells me things I hadn't thought of in terms of parenting and priority setting without making me feel negligent or dim-witted.

She knits and sews and feeds us. She smiles and laughs and can't wait to see us arrive -whether with a rowdy, energetic gaggle or if I come late and stealthily on my own to steal a bit of left overs from her fridge.

I call her constantly bc there is so much that I don't know- knowledge she has stashed away, skills she has accumulated... And I'm always a little sheepish when I realize how rare it is to have a mom of this caliber right down the street. How lucky I am!!!

Hope you have a wonderful day, Nana! I'm so grateful to have your genes, and friendship and support. Here's to you and many more adventures together! Happy bday!!!
❤❤❤
PS - As I write this, a cardinal is going NUTZ outside my window... Just thought you'd like to know! xoxo

Ladies and gentlemen, if you can't get your taxes done BEFORE your Christmas tree comes down, maybe you're doing it wrong. Just get organized, folks! Some of us have our priorities intact. My neighbor asked me several weeks ago why my tree wasn't down yet, I think he thought I was kidding when I said: "Why?!? Is it MARCH already???"
‪#‎killingit‬
‪#‎whoneedslifehackswhenyourhackinglifeupsogood‬
‪#‎ohtannenbaum‬
‪#‎itonlyhastocomedownbeforeeaster‬
That tree top will burn up real nice this summer!!!

This makes me sad. — remembering our heroes.

I love obscure, amazing stories...

It's been a long time since I've read something so well-constructed and powerful: poignant and devastating, inspiring and somehow comforting. The God that Ruth Coker Burks hears and listens to is the God I want to teach my children to pray to.

http://m.arktimes.com/arkansas/ruth-coker-burks-the-cemetery-angel/Content?oid=3602959

18 Months Status Post Divorce

"Sometimes I really don't like that you are divorced."
"I'm sure." I respond slowly, screwing the cap back on their toothpaste tube, reminding myself to let him lead, "Most kids whose parents are divorced don't like it." When my nearly 8 year old son, stopped brushing his teeth to bring this up, I knew it was not a bed-time delay tactic.  Even though I've been sort of waiting for this line of questioning to come, I was thrown. 
Not that he hasn’t dipped his toe in this once or twice before: After a year of all discussions of the divorce beginning with me (usually) asking, “How are you doing with all the changes?” and Jake responding very consistently with a “Fine. Good.” Time floated by with almost zero evidence of stress or upheaval or regression, and then he came at me one morning last January, like a sweet-talking salesman at a conference-hotel bar: “So, um…” he started with a sort of verbal swagger, “You must really be missing Mama by now.”
“What?!?”
“I mean we get to see her every few days, but you don’t… you must really be missing her.”
I was packing lunches and literally sweating, racing around trying to get them to school and me to work on time. “Um… I miss you and your brother, very much when you aren’t here…”
“But, I mean…” he continued, “When the heck is she moving back in here with us???”
I heard a crack in the supposedly soft tissues beneath my ribcage. Here was a kid that seemed to understand and be taking it all in stride and really, he was just biding his time – learning to read and write, add and subtract, ride his bike and climb trees – waiting quietly to get his life back.
“Well,” I tried to say it as gently as I could. “She’s not.” It hung in the air callus-sounding and abrupt.
“Ever?!? You can’t know that…” His turn to feel shocked.
“Well, yes. Remember? We got divorced.  That’s what divorce means, you aren’t married anymore and live in different houses. And I know that it is hard, but we are going to stay divorced.” (I thought of that Louis C.K. punch line: “Unlike marriage, divorce really is forever.”)
“Like forever???” He clairvoyantly nabbed the word from the thought bubble over my head. “Do you know how long that is? You can’t know what’s going to happen in the future”
His sound reasoning and cuteness forced a smile to rise within me and I clenched my jaw to keep it from reaching my lips. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, it’s true. But I know that Mama and Mommy are not going to get married again.” He moved his eyebrows and forehead into a lopsided crinkle and shook his head as if he pitied me for not understanding the world.
In the bathroom tonight, six months later, he pushed on: "Why are you divorced? Why can't you get married again?"
"Well, I know it's hard, Jakey, but how could we get married again?"
"Well, she could move back in here.  Or you could move in there..."  My brain was working fast, was my son really requiring me to point out that there has been another woman in bed beside his other mom for a year now? He lives with this woman part time and talks about her to me daily.  But in his mind she would just disappear and Katy and I would be back together like nothing ever happened? Like she never happened?
"Sweetie, I've been told that kids whose parents are divorced almost always want their parents to get back together.  It's a very rational and normal thing to want. But it doesn't happen.  Mama and I are not going to be married again."
"She said she might marry Trisha." There. He said it. He does know it's a factor.
"She did? How does that make you feel?"
"Well, I just think you two should be married."
"I know." I edit the comment quickly, "I know you do."
"Why are you divorced anyway?" I stare at him, uncertain what to say. He presses on: "Did YOU want to get divorced?!?"
I know in Post-Divorce Parenting for Dummies chapter 1, section 6 states that you are never supposed to dump any kind of blame on your ex- to or in front of the kids... but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what to say... I had to suppress the urgent: "NO WAY, I did NOT WANT to get divorced!!!" That rose up in my chest and throat. 
So much more was crawling up behind it: I was LEFT. Behind. You have no idea! She hunted for a new me while she was still here.  While she was proclaiming to want a new HER, she opted to become a new THEY. Divorce was the LAST THING I wanted, even behind “Single mom”! I would have stayed in a relationship for 6, 8, 10 or more years the way it was...I would have stayed until you were grown! I would have stayed... living with a woman who flat out told me she didn't love me anymore, who was on the prowl for the next big thing, who felt oppressed and trapped by our life and the commitments we made, who believed that you can't fall in love again with someone that you fell out of love with. Who took "Love Makes a Family" and "Marriage Makes a Word of Difference" and moved it up the street.  I'd be embarrassed to admit this to adults - that I would have stayed way, way too long in something that looked and felt like that.  But I wanted so very desperately to admit this to my son. Not to admit it, but brag about it.  To tell him that I was the one willing to fight to keep his family together.  And she was the one that broke it apart.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it!!!  But I knew that IF that was the truth then what was required of me was a lie.  And I knew that that version of the truth was at best- naive, simplistic mythology.
My identity is deeply enmeshed in the concept that I would choose to stay married no matter what; that my commitment was unwavering. But it is more honest to admit that I could only handle living in that existence for about 8 months. Living in close quarters with someone who wanted desperately to live away from me; someone that once loved and cherished me but then started to seethe in resentment. Who seemingly inexplicably bristled and winced when I touched her, who couldn't find a way to talk it out or explain it to me... “Forever” melted quickly in that environment. Little more than ½ a year was about as much as I could bear.  I got so angry and essentially told her: "Get back in it or get out" (thinking, of course, she'd get back in it)... and she ran as fast as she could.  Our conversations couldn't compare to the new ones she had with other people.  And my touches were familiar and cool compared to the unpredictable fire of what was just right there waiting to touch her. In desperation, I told her she was wrong to want to leave; a tactic that was swallowed whole by the budding relationships on the other side, patiently telling her that her thoughts and feelings could never be wrong. Growing increasingly contemptuous and agitated as I realized all that she was about to put me through, I became someone I didn’t even recognize, and “enough is enough” came much sooner for me than I assumed it would.
I've worked hard in the last two years to try to stop blaming her.  To try to stop judging her. To offer gratitude toward her (and the new girl) for never looking back at me. She never seemed the tiniest bit conflicted or remorseful except where the boys were concerned. I’m sure that at times she was, but that at least that was a blessing- she never ran back and forth.  She never tried to soothe my ego with "I love you but..." or a "Part of me wants to stay..." Her resolve was brutal but stoic in its own right.
She never even wanted to fight. Just wanted me to sign the papers as fast as possible. And I did.  Because it seemed the civil thing to do. And because my attempted expressions of love leaked out of me like acid and rage, and my feelings of abandonment and betrayal and self-righteous indignation only made her look at me with more disdain.
"Did YOU want to get divorced?" He asked again.
"I didn't."  It was my truth, I couldn’t deny it... but the truth is usually complicated.  My job here was to represent the truth of both of the loves of his life and protect his understanding of and ability to rely on the parents that loved him into existence… "But… Remember how I tell you that you can marry anyone that you want to as long as s/he loves you and you love him/her?"
"Yeah."
"Well, to stay married, both people have to want that and have to love each other. And Mama and I are divorced because we both decided we couldn't be married anymore.  And we will always be a family, but we don't love each other in that way anymore."  He stares at me.  I resist the urge to say too much. I might have already.  I want to leave no false hope (as I know from Chapter two, section 19, unless you pointedly tell children that you are not getting back together, they will always think there's a chance.) I quietly linger. I want to be sure I understand and have answered the questions he is really asking.
"Maybe you should talk to her about this?" He is in problem-resolution mode. He wants an ally. He wants permission: "Or me... Maybe I should talk to her..." He goes analytical, "I know that there's only like a 2% chance that she will listen to me, but it could happen."
I have to fight hard not to grin and bear-hug him.  He's so damn adorable and dorky.  I mean a "two percent chance", how fucking hilarious is that?!? He's probably been reading up on the topic and is exactly accurate, for all I know.
I tread lightly, offering him the respect he has earned: "You can and should talk to Mama," I tell him.  "Or to me, or to friends or family.  But talk about your feelings and what you need.  And what might help and why this is hard... because only adults decide who they marry... And I can't move into your new house because we aren't married anymore and I won't be married to Mama again.  And Mama can't marry me if she might marry someone else... Three people can't be married."
"I know.  I just wish you and Mama could be married."
I stare at him and let the quiet fog all around us for a few seconds. "I know."
It was all I ever wanted once. To be married to her.  For most of my adult life, it was everything I wanted.  But it wasn't true anymore.  If we'd had this conversation a year ago, I would have had to bite my tongue off to not say, "Me too".  But I NEVER would have said that to him any more than I would tell him, "Not in a million years." The latter is more true now than the former. And honestly, both lines are outside of my "I've never met a gray area i didn't want to waffle in" wheelhouse.
"I'm sorry this is so hard." I offer after a few more seconds of silence. "We both love you so much."
He sighs and nods and I see a sadness in him that makes me want to tear down walls. I see an exhaustion in him that was likely the catalyst for this conversation.  These emotions flickering in his eyes completely crowd out the innocence I’m used to seeing there and send a metaphorical 360-joule charge into the sadness and exhaustion that sleeps inside of me: failure and doubt, insecurity and fear and anger and resentment forced dormant by the heavy sedative properties required for human survival.  And for a split second, I'm not a mom but a deranged beast of a woman jolted awake into a blaze of raw emotion.  A woman who does not have any modicum of her shit together; I want to shout: “Who wanted this divorce indeed?!?” Our child is hurting because of this divorce, and I want a pound of flesh!!! And, this kid better stop staring at me looking for answers, because they are in short supply.  And I breathe.  And he breathes.  I’ve learned a lot these last two years about sitting in the discomfort of pain and grief, and also the confusion of wanting many opposite things at the same time. I’ve gotten pretty good at asking people to sit there with me and let me “feel the burn” and just “be” with me as I sit in this grief and sadness. I’ve reminded them (or sometimes they remind me) that I’m strong enough to let myself experience pain and grief. I don’t have to run or hide from it, or live in fear that it will track me down and ruin me at some point in the future.
Resisting the urge to bury or chase away negative emotions is a direct result of trying to be the parent and role model I want my children to have. I believe it is a powerful way to live, not to see “happiness” as the goal but to honor the emotional components of life – That sadness, anger, sorrow, grief, frustration, boredom, and disappointment are as valid and vital as joy, bliss, love, excitement, and contentment. What if I can teach my children (by example) to handle anxiety and disappointment, frustration and sadness? What if I can teach them that the “ideal” state is not the absence of these emotions, but gently honoring the human experience of them?  What if I can show them, that their most “scary,” negative emotions are normal and don’t frighten me at all. What if I can witness my children’s struggles while resisting the urge to “fix it for them” and instead help them learn the truth behind the lyrics: “You can’t always get what you want… but sometimes, you get what you need.” So I breathe again.  And try not to look creepy as I keep my eyes locked gently on his. And I give what I hope is a weak, but reassuring smile. And I settle back into my better self: "Is there anything that I can do that might help?"
"Are you going to sing me some songs in my bed?"
"Yes.  Absolutely."
"Okay."  He patters off to his room.  I finish brushing his brother's teeth.  Milo has been bouncing off the walls all night, but seems to have settled down to take in this conversation without interruption or comment.  Normally dictatorial in terms of our bedtime ritual, the little brother lays down and lets me cover him, kiss him goodnight, and doesn't say a word when I break with procedure and go up to the top bunk first.  The little guy uncharacteristically falls asleep without demands or a single complaint, and I know that we (Katy and I) must be doing something right.  Because that mop-of-blonde-curls is all noise and drama and begging for attention, but when it mattered tonight, our not-quite-six year old noiselessly created space for his big brother’s needs. If I didn't know better, I would think that he was listening appreciatively to Jake’s interrogation so that he might get some answers too.  And I lay 32 inches from the ceiling, wanting exactly what I have and wishing it could all be different at the same time, and spontaneously made up a 12 verse song about how much a mother loves her boys.

At least he's not smearing sh*t on the walls

Things Milo could be doing with his stubborn, high-spirited nature during these times of intense life changes:

1) breaking things

2) punching people

3) making himself throw up

4) launching food and overturning dinner plates

5) marking his territory with urine

6) stashing, storing, smearing, or otherwise playing with his own excrement

7) sneaking out and getting drunk with the guys... 

8) hooking up with the loose girls at day care

9) making fake IDs with my iPhone

10) having nightmares, really falling apart...

I guess an occasional 2 hour bedtime show-down is small potatoes. 

At first, I thought it was standard stalling and tried to be firm. But 30 mins in (20 mins after his older brother had started snoring), I stopped focusing on getting what I wanted and just started rummaging through drawers for a white flag to wave...

When he sat on the top stair, twinkled his non-tired eyes, rested his full, puffy cheeks in his not-so-tiny hands and answered my, "You are going to bed right now" with:

"No.  I'm not."  Then he got quieter:  "I. Am. Not...   Not going to bed...   Not tonight."
Then he looked at me, with pity and exhaled: "no. I'm not."

Serious as a heart attack.

People, I know when I'm beat.  My mama did NOT raise a fool.  I'm all about being the adult - "the parent" and setting limits.  But it was the calm in his eyes- like the sea in a glossy travel brochure; it was his non agitated, purposeful stare...

And as Yoda- oops, I mean - JAKE told me earlier today, "Mommy, do you know the secret to beating your enemies?  Make them your friends."

"Okay," I told my curly haired challenger, "If you're not going to bed, come down here and and help me clean up.  You can start by cleaning up your cars."

Trying to get them to bed early on transition day, I had planned to return the 17 die cast metal cars (we counted them aloud 4 times as he parked then in the shape of letters (and one time in the shape of a "mark" that I when I tilted my head a little I realized was a pretty perfect "question mark") away.

When the cars were away, I had him put the couch cushions back and fluff the throw pillows.  Then I told him to go get two books and we read them each - twice.  Then we headed upstairs and drank a small dixie cup of water and as I laid him down, we talked about his day:  The hole he dug in the sand (It was huge)... The sand he put on the slide (even though his teachers told him not to put sand on the slide)... We talked about kindergarten coming up in the fall.

He didn't know that I had already decided I wouldn't even be trying to leave his lower bunk bed until I was dismissed.

Back when I worked in the ICU, I had this little rule, if a patient/or family rang his/her call bell 3 times within 20 minutes, I would pack up my charts and go in there and sit.  I would first see what they needed, and answer their question or request; BUT then I would pull up a chair or desk and sit there yammering and/or charting until the patient and/or family would say something like, "You must have other work you have to do."

When I stopped peppering Milo with questions and the conversation started to lull, I didn't make a move to leave.  I didn't even shift my weight, but still he grabbed my face and whined: "I NEED you." I held my hands over his hands, tight on my cheeks.

"I need you and love you too,"  I replied

"I WANT you."  He pulled me tighter.

"I'm right here."  I kissed both his palms and offered him mine. 

"I ALWAYS need and want you."

"Me too."  More kisses on his hands and arms

"You always... yell at me."  

I laugh.  "I SOME-times yell at you when you don't listen, but I am not yelling right now."

I snuggled in closer. "I'm staying right here until you tell me I should go."

Literally 10 seconds pass.

"When you hear the 'DING' you go.... DING!"  He high-pitched the last word into a flawless, one-toned bell.

"Okay, when I hear that noise, I should go?"

"No.  It ding'd.  You should go now... it already ding'd."

 Now I'm laughing, hard: "Wait... Now? go now???"

"Yes.  You have to. It already Ding'd.  Sorry.  I love you.  Now go."

Bahahahahahahaha!

Seriously, this kid is ridiculous.


Cross posted on Gin-Soaked Olive

The Middle of the Night

The middle of the night, he calls out to me. "Mommy."

Calling for water in the middle of the night.

In the middle of the night - in the dark-  he knows where he is. He knows who to call out for. He's here with me at his blue house. But it would be the same if he was there: At his gray house... He would know to call for her. 

During the day he finds buttons to push. He is stubborn and makes his displeasure for certain things known. 

These changes have not been that easy on him. He is a bit angry. 

During the day, he calls me "Mommy-Mama" more times than just Mommy (my assigned title). He's indifferent when he throws the "wrong" name into the air- "You figure out who I mean," he seems to eye-roll; "Not my problem the names are so similar."

But somehow, in the middle of the night, as he sits and waits for the water he requested, he knows who he is, where he is, which one of us is on duty in this place. 

He drinks. He sighs. I steal a full-lipped kiss.  He puts his head down and waits for the covers to be pulled up and around to his ears. Another kiss and "I love you." Tomorrow he'll probably do this in that other space where I won't get to run water in to him if he beckons. 

But in the middle of THIS night, he's mine to tend to. Mine to lose sleep over. 

There are now two types of middles of the nights. There is here and there is there. There is "what-I-want" and "not quite right". There is a chance for interrupted sleep in either kind of night. 

One type is much sweeter and one much harder to bare.  

Cross posted on Gin-Soaked Olive

My guys on v-day