I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

Bryan left Wednesday to see his dad. He always cries when he leaves. I don't. I'm trying to do the good parent routine - so I stand there and choke it in until his plane is a little dot that disappears into the sky. Today, his dot reappeared in the sky.

As if by magic he came bouncing back all in one piece forgetting he's nearly as tall as me and leaping onto my neck like he's still three years old.

When he leaves - I hold it in until he's gone. Then I cry. On the way out to the parking garage.  Doesn't matter if he's gone for a week or a month - there's something about that sense of helplessness that comes when the power I have to protect him is taken away.

There is something eerie about handing him over to the hands of strangers, an airline, a pilot, a child transfer agent, my ex. It's all the same. If he's not with me, I don't know that everything in the world is being done to make sure he's safe.

Of the things I know - as a mother I have one job. To protect, teach and sometimes gently tease. Mostly to protect. I know without a doubt if needed I'd throw myself in front of a bus, a speeding bullet, give up my seat on a life raft to make sure he is safe, out of harms way and alive.

It's the mother gene, it's the selfless gene that takes over from the selfish gene. The gene that puts him first. Always. The gene that demands it now be OK to spend less time on how I look and more time on how he feels about how he looks.

It's the gene that says I don't need any more shoes or a new suit, and insists that Bryan get new jeans and tennis shoes before he's technically outgrown the ones he has. It's the gene that this year made us drop $20k dollars on an attorney because Bryan isn't ready yet to go live with his dad and asked me to help him stay at home. With us.

 It's the gene that said I'd rather give an attorney every single dime I earned plus every dime of child support my ex has paid than to send him off to his dad's before he's ready.  It's the gene that says because I paid the attorney I won't be building a house anytime soon.  I might never have a home of my own again.

It's the gene that says I'll have time to work at a job that keeps me out past 5:00 PM in six more years, when he's gone to college. It's the gene that tells me that money isn't as important as being home when he walks through the door at 4:10 PM everyday. It's the gene that ticks like a clock telling me this time is slowly running out and whispers - don't miss a single minute.

It's the inclination to get accidentally beaten at Scrabble and at Monopoly and be convincing enough to be a genuine loser. It's the gene to know when I've been beaten fair and square at Monopoly and to demand a rematch.

The gene that convinces me I'll have time to sleep when I'm dead. The gene that tells me that not only can he have the last brownie?

 He can also have the last bite of the brownie I'm eating.

Welcome home, Bryan.