Today was a rough day for littleman and I.
He woke up at 5 a.m., screaming to me that it was “time to get up” and it just went downhill from there — we played outside nearly all day, and he refused to nap.
He’s getting to that age where I really have to be in the mood to battle him to nap, and, quite frankly, sometimes the hour I’ll spend getting him to relax in the middle of the day just doesn’t make sense given he’ll only sleep for about 30-45 minutes if I’m lucky.
During one of his two major meltdowns today, I finally got him to calm down by telling him about Patrick, and promising him that Grammy would send us Patrick in the mail so he can snuggle him.
Patrick, is a ratty old beat up bear who was once white, but is now grayed with age and love.
My parents gave me Patrick when I was about my son’s age (3). It was St. Patrick’s Day, and I was at Children’s Hospital to have eye surgery.
I was scared and told the anesthesiologist that I wanted root beer flavored gas to put me out. They didn’t have root beer — only bubble gum, which had to do.
When I woke up, there was Patrick, whom I could see through the eye that wasn’t covered with an eye patch. He was sitting up in my bed, and had a green and white checked bow tied around his neck.
The bow was lost quickly, but for years afterward, Patrick was my main man. He slept with me. I buried my face in him when I was angry and crying. He was even hand delivered to my dorm room by my boyfriend when I was in college.
Now, 30 some-odd years later, Patrick will make the longest journey by post he’s ever taken, being shipped from Massachusetts to Pennsylvania where he will change ownership and go from being my bear to being my son’s.
Of all the things I’ve been excited about handing down to him, this one, by far, means the most.
I just hope littleman doesn’t change Patrick’s name.