When I was very small, I remember being scared about something. I don't remember what it was I was afraid of, but I couldn't sleep. Dad was on a camp bed next to me and I remember he held my hand until I fell asleep. It must have been quite uncomfortable for him, holding my hand across the space between our beds. I woke up in the morning, realised we weren't holding hands anymore, but remembering he had held my hand until I fell asleep and I loved him so much for that.
The dad who did that isn't around anymore. Dad is still alive, that's not what I mean. The dad who would do what what needed to make me feel safe and loved is long gone and I'm very sad about that. I think he must be there somewhere, but not for me.
Tonight, my son was scared. He had a bad dream. I carried him back to his room, put him into his bed, then sat by his bed holding his hand. I was really uncomfortable. I needed to go to the toilet. I waited until I thought he was asleep and tried to move, but he stirred and his fingers grasped for my hand. It was ages before I could move, then I came back and lay on the bed beside him. It's late and I need to go to my own bed, but in a moment I will go back to his room and check he's okay. He may well stir, and I will lay down beside him again and wait for him to fall asleep. He probably won't remember me doing that in the morning, but I don't care. I want him to feel safe and loved and I will always do that for him, no matter how old he is.
For posterity... - Ok, so this blog entry is more for me than you, so feel free to skip over the boring bits. To make it easier, I'll make the non-boring bits *red*. So the ...
1 month ago