His chest heaves with sighs every so often, as though he's letting me know that he isn't fully asleep. To say that this boy is taxing would be an understatement.
I'm typing this from the floor because I know that if I get up, if I walk past him, if I create even the slightest draft or shadow that crosses his body, he'll know. The eyes will be open, and the dance will begin all over again.
The dance that we do, him and I.
I'm tired, but it is a tired that I know well. It is the kind of tired that doesn't just seep into my eyelids, but into every ounce of my being. In the past week, we've transitioned him to the crib and there he sleeps for a good portion of the night.
I, on the other hand, do what I do and listen for the sounds of his breathing on the monitor. I sleep, but it's more interrupted when he's in his crib than it ever is when he is beside me.
When I can smell the sweetness of his breath on my face, when I know that he is right there, I rest more soundly.
I have to adjust to this newest change, and the wisdom that comes from having done this so many times already tells me that I will.
I'm just not there yet.
I'm here. Leaned against the beanbag on the floor with the computer typing quietly so I don't wake him.
For reasons I don't fully understand, I was looking back through the archives of the blogs I don't make public. I don't know why I do this to myself, but I do it every so often.
Less and less as time marches forward, but still on occasion.
Perhaps it is a need deep within me to recognize just how far I've come, how much progress has been made, how horrid things truly were and that I survived them all. Perhaps.
Perhaps there are times that I wonder how I got here to this place in a world still with my family but without my parents, the world with this new demanding little boy dozing beside me.
Perhaps instead it is this incessant need to relive the past periodically. To go back for reminders of what was. To reassure myself that I never was as crazy as I thought myself to be. To tell the voice inside my head that I really did the best I could with the means at my disposal. To confirm that the choices I made were the right ones, even and especially when they were impossibly difficult ones to make.
I know that I don't have to justify anything to anyone else, but sometimes I still have to justify it to myself.
I know that a significant part of it is the time of year.
When the daylight stretches out a bit longer with each day, I get the anxious feeling again. Unsettled is the only way to describe it. The reminders of things that happened, of how devastating they were and of how devastating they could have been surround me here, in this house.
I'm not the only one who bears the scars.
And this time of year beckons me, it pushes me outside, to even more reminders of what was and what could have been.
Memories that I've effectively blocked purely for self preservation, the very ones that I revisit through my own words when I go back in time.
The difference between the years past and this one is him.
The one I never knew I'd meet someday but feel like I've known forever.
He was not here then, in all those years prior, but he is here now. He needs me to stay present in this moment, away from the past that calls my name.
They do keep us so terribly accountable.
Hush now, sweet boy and rest those fluttering eyelids.
Mama is here, refusing to drag her shadows across the room.
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