Flashbacks

It's sometime in the early 1980s -- I'm about 4 years old. My dad is not home -- he works 'swing shift' for the airline, though at my age I have no idea what that means. All it means to me is that he's not usually home for dinner or bedtime, and he is not usually home on Saturday or Sunday like other dads. He works a lot, takes care of our family, and it's just me and mom lots of the time.

We are in our small, two bedroom apartment in El Segundo, CA. My mom and I. It's night -- time for me to go to bed, but I'm not in my own bedroom. I never sleep there. When it's my bedtime, I crawl up into my mom and dad's bed and cozy in on my dad's side. The left side. It's time for me to go to bed, and so I'm laying down, watching TV with my mom.

She's ready for bed, too. She smells like cigarettes and baby powder, and the room is warm and sweet with the humidity of her just-taken shower. It's a small room, even though it's the master in our apartment. There is a big sliding glass door on her side of the bed that looks out onto our little patio with a painted-green floor. The humidity from her shower spills out from the bathroom and steams up the screen on the small bedroom TV, even touches the sliding glass door. Mom's hair is just a little bit wet on the ends as she sits on her side of the bed. Sometimes it splashes me as turns her head toward her nightstand. Sometimes it drips down on to her silky nightshirt, the kind that are so smooth and cool, they feel refreshing when I snuggle with her.

I'm tired. The room is not dark. The TV is on. But this is how I go to bed -- so it does not bother me in the slightest. When my eyelids get too heavy to hold up any longer, I put my left thumb in my mouth and roll over to face away from my mom. I face toward the bathroom. I listen to the local advertising, and then I listen to whatever show my mom is watching for just a few moments before I drift off to sleep. Sometime later, I wake slightly as my dad puts his big arms under my knees and shoulders, carries me into my room. I roll over again and easily fall back to sleep, still sucking that left thumb.


I've been having these flashbacks lately. They are induced by Big, I'm certain -- her age, our relationship. She and I had a 'sleep over' in my bed last week, and it was all I could to do stop remembering those countless nights I slept with my own mom when I was her age. I slept with her every night. Every night -- and my dad would, without fail, come in, scoop me up and put me in my own bed when he got home from work around 1 or 2 am.

When I was older, I wondered why my mom always had me sleeping with her. I thought it was me. The only child, afraid to sleep in my own big bed. I always thought it was my doing -- I must have begged to sleep with her. I must have made it hard for her to say no by throwing tantrums or refusing to go to bed in my own room. I thought I was the one wanted to sleep with her.

But now I think that maybe it was she who wanted me in the bed with her. You see, there is nothing in the world more cozy, more loving, more wonderful than cuddling up in the bed with your own child. To smell their sweet smells, to listen to them breathe. Now that I'm the mom, I would do it every single night, if I could. I would let Big or Little (or both) sleep right next to me every night Jim is away if I could. If I didn't fear the battle that would ensue on the nights Jim IS home and we want our bed back. I don't think there is anything more wonderful than sleeping with my children.

And I bet my mom felt the exact same way. I bet she relished having her only daughter sleep soundly right next to her. I bet she loved it. Now that I have my own daughters, I can see how easy it was for her to fall into the pattern of letting me sleep with her night after night. It was comforting to her. It was company in that big bed.

I'll have to assume that is was her that wanted me in that bed with her. I want to assume that. I want to think that she felt the same way about sleeping with her daughter as I feel about sleeping with mine.

Man, I wish I she were here so we could talk about it. I'd love to know for sure.