It's 7am and I'm still awake. Adaline (2) has either a cold or allergies. When you combine that with molars coming in, it's not conducive to sleep. After we tried everything and everything all over again she is finally asleep, but I've found myself rattled with guilt and fear that I will wake up to the worst again if I fall asleep.
Earlier, as she was screaming and kicking and fighting everything we wanted to do, I put her in her bed in her own room. But when she got quiet, I went in and woke her up again. I was terrified that she would scream herself to sleep and never wake up again. As I sit and watch her lungs move up and down and up and down my heart races and skips beats everytime her breath is delayed even for a moment.
In moments like this I know that I'm not parenting in the way that I would have if Charlie hadn't left us. I know that things would be different and I wouldnt live in fear that something else would happen to devastate our lives even further. This is one of the many situations that leads me back to that very day and being so unable to get rid of the moments, the exact memories of the 21 hours following his death. Everything from those first moments of finding him to falling asleep in my parent apartment 350 miles away from where I left him. It has this amazing ability to all flash before me so quickly, but I can feel every moment of it all at once.
And it's not conducive to sleep. I'd take good old allergies and molars any day.