Chapter, Closed

I grew a little sentimental last night, when I realized it was the last night that the boy and I would spend together, alone. As I write, my husband is flying in our direction, to begin the manic week of packing and preparing that will culimnate next Friday. That night, we’ll hop a Virgin America flight eastward, and wake up in NYC.

As excited as I am about having the family together again, I’ve also been conscious of the lovely, intense mommy/boy bonding I’ve experienced this last year or so. He’s been my buddy, my dinner companion, my cuddle-monster. And I haven’t had to share him with anyone, most of the time. Just this past week, when he was sick, I let him sleep in bed with me, and the night saw us in all sorts of positions — my belly as pillow, my inner-elbow as pillow, and my face as pillow — some of which were more comfortable than others.

While I know that the upcoming changes won’t bring an abrupt end to that closeness, it’s still nice for me to realize how thankful I am for my relationship with my boy — especially when most of my energy has gone to complaining about how hard it has been. And it has been very hard. I was reminded of that this morning, when he grabbed an elastic bit of my fleece jacket, and didn’t let go until the elastic was pulled nearly to its breaking point. He let go, and it snapped back hard and hit my hand, drawing blood. Oh, boy. Yes, I’m sentimental about the end of this single-parenting thing, but not overly sentimental.