I was putting some things away in the coat closet and noticed something balled up in the back of the top shelf. I reached up on tip toes and pulled out a sweater. A Braeden sweater. A practically new sweater that would be perfect for him right now on his mission. That is, if he'd taken it.
I recognize that tip toe for me is chest high for Braeden with his long limbs, but he makes me crazy. Why does he always hide things up out of my reach? Is that kid part squirrel?
Seeing the sweater, all wrinkled and big and Braeden-sized, I felt a bubble of intense missing-my-baby-boy well up inside of me. I buried my face in the fabric to see if it still smelled like Braeden. It didn't. It smelled like a sweater.
Last week at book club, one of the women whose son has been home from his mission for a few months, was telling us how much her son is bugging her. She loves him, of course she does. (I hardly know her but I recognize that light in her eyes when she talks about him.) He also infuriates her like sons do to mothers. She wants him at college, in a dorm room, not messing her house up, thank-you-very-much. She is in a more sane frame of mind, where she can just go ahead and be annoyed by him.
I'm stuck on this lonely island where my son's annoying habits make me want to wrap my arms around him and smell his sweater. It is something of a luxury to have someone around to annoy you.
I miss my sanity.
I miss being able to get frustrated with my son like any normal mother.
I miss Braeden.