As my kid fell asleep last night he started up one of those conversations that are worth their weight in gold because the honey glow of sleep has relaxed his defenses completely.
He started asking me about one of the most traumatic events in the long, unending saga of his parents’ separation. He wanted me to tell him the story of this event from the beginning to the end. He would stop me and interject but then look over the tightly cuddled head of his favourite stuffed animal and say: ‘Keep going. I want to hear it.’
I didn’t tell him all the grown up details but I thought he was entitled to hear the basics. And I made it clear this was what I experienced and saw and he may have seen and felt it differently.
At several points he started to cry quietly. I could see him putting his eight-year-old heart and soul into not letting the tears out, but luckily he’s not great at that.
I stopped each time the tears came and asked if he was ok and reassured him that people doing unpleasant things to each other doesn’t mean the good things they do no longer exist.
About the third time I did this, he said: ‘Mum, I’m crying because you just look so sad.’
And here I had thought I was holding it back completely and that my face was a marvellous mask of no-big-dealness.
I love my son. And I adore that he can feel the emotions of others. If I thought lighting candles would help him preserve that ability forever, I would buy all the wax in Madame Tussauds’ many museums and spend my life ensuring it never ran out.
1000 days 