Yesterday I was changing the sheets on our boys' beds. They are bunk beds which I love except for when I'm trying to change the sheets. I feel like I deserve some sort of medal after I wrestle with that top bunk.
Braeden still has the same mattress we bought for him when he was a toddler. It reminded me of how I felt then. Overwhelmed.
When I considered that we had to buy him a bed, I wondered how we were going to possibly do it. Because after a bed, a whole progression of purchases followed in my mind. Bicycles, clothes, shoes, milk. How were we ever going to afford this kid? (And my mind didn't even jump to braces or college.)
A bed seemed like the gateway purchase. He was no longer a roly-poly cherub with a snug little crib. He was a big boy and would keep getting bigger.
I want to go back in time and pat my silly self on the head and tell her it will all be all right.
I'd like to think that I have progressed past premature panicking.
Except I haven't.
This week Braeden has been getting home late every night because he has play practice. I trade off propping my eyes open with toothpicks and yawning, waiting for him to get home. Adam tells me to go to bed and that is hard to do. My boy's not home.
This makes me feel a little overwhelmed. I start spiraling into a no-my-baby-can't-grow-up-and-leave-me tailspin. I need my children around me. I need them at my table at mealtimes. I need them in their beds at night. I need them driving me crazy with requests and I need them making messes and making me laugh. (I need to get over all this because they're growing up.)
Besides, if I'm not able to sleep unless my boy is home, I kind of think I'm in trouble. This is just the beginning.
Someday he will go to college. That's going to be a long time with no sleep. (I'm really not very pleasant when I don't sleep, ask anyone. No don't.)
Something's got to give.