Has kicked in, full-force. And considering how much time we spend separated and separating, it is making for some frequently unhappy moments for all parties involved.
This morning, for example, after being in class and away from her 8 hours Saturday and 8 hours Sunday, I dropped Birdy off on this bright Monday morning at the Baby Storage Facility, and she cried the way she did when she dove off the couch head first onto the hardwoods. Like way she cried when she slipped in the bath and bonked her face on the bathtub. The cry that is preceeded by a red face and open mouth and no sound at all for an unnerving amount of time, and during these seconds the mama’s brain gets hot and sloshy and the room starts to spin and the pit of her stomach gets knotted and the wind is knocked out of her. There are tears. And a lot of sadness and fear. And this morning, it included squirming almost all the way out of the care person’s grip and clawing at my arms and clothes with her teensy little claws. And wailing, wailing, wailing as I walked out the door.
Usually, it isn’t my kid that’s melting down, but there’s always some little person coming completely and totally unglued in that place. Usually more than one. Usually more than two or three. I’m no Scientologist– no complete silence neccessary for my kid– but I have to think that spending all of those hours in a room full of distress signals must be kind of poisonous. Sonically, at least, if not emotionally.
So I pulled my car over about a block away from the place and sat. And just. Cried. For Birdy and for myself.
I’ll be glad when A’s later office hours start, and he’s the drop-off person again. Not that I want him to go through this awfulness, but he doesn’t cry as easily. I mean, c’mon. The Rainbow Connection and all.