I miss my son tonight.
I don’t miss the tantrums, the screaming, the obsessive requesting of puzzles and games. I don’t miss the anxiety over the Wii or if the dog got out to the rest of the house or the electricity or whether the Internet remains connected. I’m thankful not to worry about the next thunderstorm, that’s for sure.
I’m glad for the break from the constant supervision, the endless asking of the same question between my husband myself—Have you seen Conor? Do you know where Conor is right now? Do you have Conor? Aidan, have you seen Conor? Conor, where are you?
It’s like his name reverberates constantly against our walls.
I have actually slept until 7:15am… three days in a row. That hasn’t happened since January 1999. (No, I’m not kidding.)
It’s been 10 days since he was admitted into the Neuropsychiatric ward. And I’ll tell you what I now miss.
I miss Happy Conor, squealing “Mommy!” as he runs up the front walk. I miss snuggle time, watching Blues Clues. Even though Conor is twelve, he is as snuggly as he was when he was two years old.
I miss hearing his favorite Maroon 5 song blaring out of various Apple products—my iPhone, his iTouch, his Dad’s iPhone, his iPad.
(Wait, now I know why Apple beat their estimates last quarter. I can’t help it; I’m an Apple junkie. I take full blame. AA stands for Apple-junkies Anonymous in my house.)
I miss bath time, with him eating the bubbles from the bubble bath and me saying, “Why do you eat the bubble bath?” He sometimes asks me to put a beard on his face out of shaving cream, “just like Santa Claus, Mommy”.
I miss hearing my husband chasing Conor around the first floor, yelling “The Shark eats the Penguin” and listening to Conor’s peals of laughter as his dad catches and tickles him. Dad’s a Shark, Conor’s a Penguin, I’m a Fox, and, despite her denials, Aunt Lee Lee is a Cow. According to Conor.
(Seriously, Single Men, Aunt Lee Lee is cute and smart and single. Call me for her number. Definitely NOT a cow.)
I even miss downloading music and videos with Conor. Because even though it’s all tied up in the horrible obsessive/compulsiveness of it all, in the end, he picks really awesome music. (Except the Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana montage, but he IS only twelve so he can be forgiven for that.)
Conor’s not doing as well as I hoped, in the Neuropsychiatric Ward. And that makes me sad. Because I want more and more of the cute, snuggly Conor. And less and less of the tantrummy, obsessive Conor.
But right now, it’s a package deal. We’re going to have to find out how to separate the two and get rid of the yucky part. So we can enjoy more of the fun, happy part.
The lovey part, I miss the lovey part.
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