There was a crisis in our house this evening. In fact, I'm still reeling from it.
Ella left her "mussy" at church. This would be the Curious George monkey that her great grandmother gave her 2 Christmases ago when she was but a nugget in my belly. Jake and Ella had gone to church tonight while I stayed home to put my feet up and well, continue to be very pregnant. When they got home, he walked in and said to me, "I think we left the m-o-n-k-e-y in the nursery at church."
*Dun-dun DUNNNN.* {What?!? You left what??}
I think I stared at him as if he had just told me that there was a world-wide shortage of dark chocolate. I'm sure he thought I was overreacting, and for a minute or two, I considered the fact that I probably was overreacting. Sure, she loved her "mussy" and yes, she slept with him every night and ate breakfast with him and took him for car rides and...uh-oh. This was not good. Not good at all. Still, I thought that maybe she would be okay to snuggle with one of her many other stuffed animals. Maybe she wouldn't really notice.
I had no idea how wrong I was.
After a particularly draining and frustrating day filled with motrin, molars and meltdowns, it was apparent that our little bug was perhaps in even more desperate need of her friend than most other nights. I knew she would be asking for him when we put her down- every night it's the same routine. One of us picks her up to carry her to bed and she immediately askes for, "beee??" (binky) and then, "Mussy??" Thanks to the ever-potent hormones coursing through my body, I could already feel myself beginning to choke up thinking about having to tell her that she couldn't have her monkey tonight, so I asked Jake to put her to bed and figure out how to break the news to her.
And then the shrieking started- the most sorrowful wail I've heard come out of my girl in a long time (she never even cried like this when she was sick or got shots). I went in to console her (bad, bad mistake) and, after seeing her big hazel eyes spilling over with crocodile tears as she begged me over and over for her monkey, we both emerged from her room with tear-stained faces. I carried her out to the living room where Jake was happily watching the game and squeaked out in a shaky voice, "we NEED the mussy...we REALLY need the mussy." (For the record, I am aware that I'm a wuss. I could have let her cry it out. But in my overly pregnant and emotionally fragile state, it just wasn't happening tonight).
So Jake made arrangements with Uncle Doug to go back to the church and hunt down her beloved friend. While he was gone, I positioned her atop my belly and rocked her while she continued to moan softly. And suddenly, I thought about this monkey- this toy- that she was so torn up about. I thought about the four and a half minutes or so that I let her wail for him in her room before I caved and went in to scoop her up. I considered the seemingly fragile security of my 19 month old daughter and how I was willing to do just about anything to restore it when it was threatened. I thought about how it hurt my heart to hear her moan and cry and how- 9 1/2 months pregnant or not- it physically pained me to hear her so upset. But this was over a toy- a very loved and cherished toy, no doubt, but still a play-thing. As I rocked her, I re-played the scene in my mind of coming in to tell her that she wouldn't be getting her "mussy" tonight (before I all but begged Jake to go get him) and seeing the devastation on her face.
And I wondered what that would have been like if she had been crying and begging for food...because she was hungry and because I didn't have enough to give her to eat. And I imagined- for one horrifying second- what it would have felt like to look at her face and tell her that she would have to go hungry tonight. How I would have to hold her and listen to her moan because her tummy was empty and she couldn't sleep. And suddenly, I wasn't crying over the missing monkey ordeal anymore, or because my back aches or even because my hormones have a death grip on me (well, okay, maybe that last one). I forget- on a daily basis- that I have it so incredibly good, and it feels wrong sometimes because so many others don't. There are mommies and daddies all over the world who have to hear their children cry themselves to sleep every night because they didn't get any food and that thought is devastating to me.
I will admit, I was never as moved by this kind of reality as I am now that I'm a parent. And I'm not even sure where this is going, other than that I had to get it out, first and foremost. If for no other reason, "the monkey incident" (which it will be called from here on out) stirred something in me that was more than just about pacifying my daughter. It's something that I'm sure will be weighing heavily on my heart as I go to bed tonight and in the days and weeks to come. Our babies can reveal so much to us about ourselves- certainly the good and the beautiful, but even more so the hard truths, the ugliness, the weak spots...those things that we'd rather pretend aren't there. If I've learned anything so far about being a momma, it's that it's a constant collision of the things I think I am and the things I really am.
It hurts like hell, but it's best thing that's ever happened to me.
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