Lay My Eyes on You
There is a fine line that exists between being a mom-at-home and a mom-out-of-town. I don't really know where the line starts or ends, or when I cross it. Is it right when I leave, or when I pay the toll on the turnpike, or when I arrive at my destination? Not sure. But if this line had a name, it would be called The "Of Course I Trust You, But I Still Need to Tell You Just a Few More Things if I'm Going to Sleep Well Tonight" Line. At home, I don't worry too much about this line. I just do what needs to be done, and I sleep. But this past weekend, I went away.
I'm lucky, though, those times when I do go out of town. My husband, Adam, takes on the weekend with gusto. There are hot dog roasts and Target excursions and bike rides. I always come home to a tidy house, and I know they have all had a good time during my absence. It's a nice bonus, this non-worry about my family. This particular Mothership can come and go from her planet with a fair amount of ease. Re-entry is easy.
I was on a girls' only shopping trip in Michigan this weekend, fully enjoying the time with my mother and sister-in-law. I called home from the aisle of a shoe store, one foot in a silver ballet-style flat (too big, darn it) and my eyes prowling for other sizes. Called home, I did, for my evening update. Everything was great, they were watching The Pink Panther, and Sam had thrown-up a couple of times.
"Oh. . ." I said.
"He's fine," said Adam. "Bathed, and on the couch. Totally good."
"Okay."
At this point, I'm 100% sure that he is fine. Not true. I'm 95% sure that he is fine, since the last time that Sam threw-up, we ended up in the ER because Sam was having a full anaphylactic reaction to a cashew. But that's not the case tonight, I'm sure. I'm pretty sure.
"He doesn't have a rash?" I ask.
"No rash. I would have seen it in the tub."
I hang up, after "good-nights" all around, and we finished up in the shoe store.
Back at the hotel, I tried to manage the inner voices battling inside me. Call. Don't call. Call. Don't call. Trust. Trust. Trust. Call. Call. Call. Don't Call. Do. Not. Call.
I called.
Because , you see, I couldn't lay my eyes on Sam, and if I had been home, I would have really, really needed to lay my eyes on him before bed.
Adam answers, and I start speaking immediately.
"Hey, this is so not about you it's totally me but I just need you to check Sam's body before you go to sleep just in case he gets a rash or something. Then maybe you might want to keep your door open tonight, or let him sleep with you. You know, the sick-at-night thing is hard, but I'm sure you've got it covered. . . " I sigh.
"I will check him again," said Adam, patiently, "I promise."
"Okay," I breathed. "Can I speak to Abby?"
And I subversively coached my 11-year old daughter to check Sam, too.
We hung up again, and though I couldn't actually lay my eyes on my husband, I was pretty sure he might have been shaking his head in disbelief (no, make that TOTAL belief) at my phone call. But understanding, too, that this was just part of the job. Innate. Like waking up in the middle of the night already halfway down the hall because someone had surely called me, or cried out, but who? And then hearing it again, softly, validating the mothersense that just IS. Mothersense crosses lines. It crosses state lines. It has nothing to do with trust, only with love, of all parties involved.
Sam was better the next day, and the rest of the weekend was uneventful, and quite fun, on all sides.
Two days later, I arrived home to a quiet house. My family was still at dinner. I brought in my suitcase, and my pillow, and even unpacked a little. I looked out the window. No headlights yet, in the dark night. Looking around, there was evidence of a recent bonfire outside, newly made crafts, and freshly bought snacks. Laundry had been done, and the beds were made. A quick check out the window. . . no car coming down the street yet. I text my son. "When R U all coming home 2 me?" He answers, "We are 2 minutes away. When did you get home, Mothership?" I smile, and think that two minutes is still a long time. Because I really, really need to lay my eyes on them.
I'm lucky, though, those times when I do go out of town. My husband, Adam, takes on the weekend with gusto. There are hot dog roasts and Target excursions and bike rides. I always come home to a tidy house, and I know they have all had a good time during my absence. It's a nice bonus, this non-worry about my family. This particular Mothership can come and go from her planet with a fair amount of ease. Re-entry is easy.
I was on a girls' only shopping trip in Michigan this weekend, fully enjoying the time with my mother and sister-in-law. I called home from the aisle of a shoe store, one foot in a silver ballet-style flat (too big, darn it) and my eyes prowling for other sizes. Called home, I did, for my evening update. Everything was great, they were watching The Pink Panther, and Sam had thrown-up a couple of times.
"Oh. . ." I said.
"He's fine," said Adam. "Bathed, and on the couch. Totally good."
"Okay."
At this point, I'm 100% sure that he is fine. Not true. I'm 95% sure that he is fine, since the last time that Sam threw-up, we ended up in the ER because Sam was having a full anaphylactic reaction to a cashew. But that's not the case tonight, I'm sure. I'm pretty sure.
"He doesn't have a rash?" I ask.
"No rash. I would have seen it in the tub."
I hang up, after "good-nights" all around, and we finished up in the shoe store.
Back at the hotel, I tried to manage the inner voices battling inside me. Call. Don't call. Call. Don't call. Trust. Trust. Trust. Call. Call. Call. Don't Call. Do. Not. Call.
I called.
Because , you see, I couldn't lay my eyes on Sam, and if I had been home, I would have really, really needed to lay my eyes on him before bed.
Adam answers, and I start speaking immediately.
"Hey, this is so not about you it's totally me but I just need you to check Sam's body before you go to sleep just in case he gets a rash or something. Then maybe you might want to keep your door open tonight, or let him sleep with you. You know, the sick-at-night thing is hard, but I'm sure you've got it covered. . . " I sigh.
"I will check him again," said Adam, patiently, "I promise."
"Okay," I breathed. "Can I speak to Abby?"
And I subversively coached my 11-year old daughter to check Sam, too.
We hung up again, and though I couldn't actually lay my eyes on my husband, I was pretty sure he might have been shaking his head in disbelief (no, make that TOTAL belief) at my phone call. But understanding, too, that this was just part of the job. Innate. Like waking up in the middle of the night already halfway down the hall because someone had surely called me, or cried out, but who? And then hearing it again, softly, validating the mothersense that just IS. Mothersense crosses lines. It crosses state lines. It has nothing to do with trust, only with love, of all parties involved.
Sam was better the next day, and the rest of the weekend was uneventful, and quite fun, on all sides.
Two days later, I arrived home to a quiet house. My family was still at dinner. I brought in my suitcase, and my pillow, and even unpacked a little. I looked out the window. No headlights yet, in the dark night. Looking around, there was evidence of a recent bonfire outside, newly made crafts, and freshly bought snacks. Laundry had been done, and the beds were made. A quick check out the window. . . no car coming down the street yet. I text my son. "When R U all coming home 2 me?" He answers, "We are 2 minutes away. When did you get home, Mothership?" I smile, and think that two minutes is still a long time. Because I really, really need to lay my eyes on them.
How true! I think every mother (and father) can relate.
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