January 23, 2014.

Zero degrees today. A warming trend.

We (Harry and I) were lying in bed one night, counting the stars on the ceiling… (The stars on the ceiling are made by a green plastic tortoise night-light – the stars and a crescent moon cut into its shell - that we’ve had since Harry was about 6 months old.  It’s really very calming to regularly go to sleep under the stars.)…as has been our bedtime routine for a long time now, and I was talking about praying. I said to Harry, “Let’s say a little prayer.” Harry replied, “I think we should say a BIG prayer!”

So, last night, we did. Again.  We said a BIG prayer. We prayed to bless our family. We prayed to stay healthy. We prayed for a job for Mommy and a new home for us. We prayed, thankful, for all of our blessings. And then Harry said, “I want to go home.” In a way, it was heartbreaking to hear my son’s little voice say those words.  He knows that Grandma’s house is only a temporary home. But in another more important way, it was nice to know that he knows that his real home is somewhere with me, just the two of us. A family.

Harry and Me.

Harry is such a sweet, sweet soul, with a bit of a serious side. As we were getting ready to go to sleep last night, he sat on the edge of the blow-up bed and said, “I need something that will make me feel better.” “What do you need?” I responded. “A banana and hugs.”

Harry, too, has an incredible vocabulary, really. I credit his love of words to books and to conversation.  I began reading to him when he was 3 months old and before that I told him stories: real stories about his family, and made-up stories about princes and kings and forests and magic. And I’ve always talked to him. Really talked to him. Not in cooing, strangely truncated baby talk, but real conversation.

Harry loves to play with words. He creates his own vocabulary with regularity.  We were waiting for the Red Line train one day in Boston, I’ve forgotten the exact conversation we were having, but he said, “That’s a kronk.”  A kronk?” I questioned, “What’s a kronk?”  “It’s when you are frustrated and you make this sound.” And then he proceeded to make a low gurgling sound that originated somewhere in his throat and came into a crescendo out of his mouth. “That’s what a kronk is.”  he stated with the authority it was due. A stranger on the bench next to us (the mother to the girl sitting next to her) turned and remarked, “That is exactly what that sounds like. A kronk.” And she smiled.

The Red Line.

Harry also loves to pretend he doesn’t know the right word for common things. Four-year-olds are all about silly!  “What’s the speed lemon, Mommy?” “It’s the speed limit, Harry. It’s 45 mph.” Then, an eruption, uproarious laughter emanating from the back seat, “No, Mommy, it’s speed lemon!”

Some of Harry’s other playful words include: barnyarn (where all the animals live) and elbone (the joint between your wrist and your shoulder). And to hear him laugh with abandon is one of the most amazing things on this planet.

Harry has always been a happy soul. I started recording his giggle when he was just a baby and when I had to switch from a company computer, to my own personal computer, something happened. I’m still not sure what, but I lost the recordings.  I was heartbroken.  I asked an acquaintance, a young, new college graduate (really, a computer nerd, and I say that with the utmost respect…) who had done some “volunteer” work at the office, if he could try to “find” the recordings for me. He came by one night and sat on a stool at the counter pounding on my computer keyboard for a long time.  I paced nervously back and forth, back and forth across the floor behind him. So hopeful, yet not expecting anything resolute. And then I heard it…Harry’s laughter. The nerd had recovered the lost files!  I burst into tears. And I swear that I saw a welling up in his eyes too.  I immediately copied those files to three or four different places. I always want to be able to hear my son’s laughter, no matter where he is.

So, backing WAY up… yes, Harry and I are co-sleeping on the blow-up bed.  It began a very long time ago when he was still an infant and I was breastfeeding.  It was the only way to get any sleep at that time. Harry was never a good sleeper. And I was massively sleep-deprived for the first 2-½ years of his little life. So when I had the opportunity, Harry attached to my breast, I slept.  As a single parent, there was no relief. No break. Just pure, unadulterated exhaustion. And of course, stress-induced insomnia. Then, as more time passed, co-sleeping became a comfort, I think, for both of us. We weathered a great deal of emotional turmoil and separated from a very good friend. The friend had been important to Harry and had really helped out a lot. Harry was deeply connected to him. Then we had to move – forced out of our home by the family of that very good friend. That was followed by suffering through a number of issues in our new home; including black mold growing in the plasterboard in the kitchen - a result of a long, undiscovered leak behind the dishwasher. Harry, who was 3 at the time, and I had to live in a hotel room with a hot plate for almost a week. The first night in the hotel, Harry cried from the moment we walked through the door until he finally fell asleep, exhausted, well after midnight. That was followed by a number of other challenges. And those, of course, followed by sudden unemployment and a certified letter from the landlord curtly stating that she would not be renewing our lease. Chaos…again.  Packing all our things, after just a short year in our new home. But this time, packing all our things with nowhere to unpack them.  A bit traumatic for a grown adult - me - and much more so for a small boy.

Sleeping companions: The Bears.

Since Harry’s birth, I have not been a good sleeper. Mind racing from the moment I lay down.  Trouble falling asleep.  Trouble staying asleep.  Real trouble getting back to sleep after waking in the night. Harry is a tosser.  I was told once that he feels my restless energy, making him restless too. I’m often the victim of flailing arms, kicking feet and the BIG rollover, forcing me to cling to the edge of the inflated mattress. I’ve tried sleep aids, (both over-the-counter and prescription), teas, changes in diet, exercise, short meditation, counting sheep. Everything.

My niece mentioned that her 5-year-old twins, Tylor and Zoyee (yes…that’s the correct spelling) had trouble sleeping too and their pediatrician recommended Melatonin. Pure, 100% Melatonin, in a cherry-flavored, melt-away tablet. If it worked for the twins, it was worth a try. Five days ago, I started taking 10 mg of melatonin right before sitting down with Harry in the big green-flowered chair in the corner of our temporary bedroom, to read books. I noticed that I was yawning a lot more right in the middle of Otis and the Tornado, Pumpkin Town or Steam Train, Dream Train.  But it was just last night that I actually slept until almost 4 a.m.! And…Harry slept peacefully. No flailing arms, no head butts, no restless rollovers; just peaceful, restful sleep…for both of us.

Bedtime reading.

I’m trying to keep the stress worry to the daytime hours now, certain that any kind of sleep will be beneficial. Being a single, unemployed mother of a small child is stressful, without a doubt. But we both need our sleep. Restful, calm sleep, so that we can concentrate on the daytime tasks at hand. Harry’s - to grow and to learn and to laugh. And mine – to find our next home…accompanied by a new career.

This morning as we were walking to the garage, Harry said, “What are you doing today?” “Are you going to get a new job? … So that we can get all of our things out of storage?” “Can we do that today?”

My reply?  “I hope so, Sweetie, I hope so.”

Came home to find this Dove at the back door.