34. Returning

July 25, 2023

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We take turns tapping our fingers on the couch cushions, copying each other’s rhythms. I shake my hand between his two. He lets me tousle his hair. It feels good to smile with him.

My heart insists I haven’t seen him in days, but it’s only been, what? Not even 12 hours? Just a chunk of time longer than the three or four hours I get a few days a week, those small breaks I fill with errands and quick gasps of writing or reading.

My son locks eyes with me and, for the millionth time, I wonder what he’s thinking. Maybe he missed my face, my presence, and not just me as provider of food and fidgets and fixes. He lets me share his space without telling me to stand up. Maybe my voice sounds less irritating to him after it’s been quiet for a while. I tell him about my day and confess that I missed him.

Whenever I have a full day or rare overnight away, I am not aware while I’m gone that I miss my 24-year-old who needs 24/7 support. I enjoy my solo time with friends or family, savoring activities he’d have no interest in, indulging in conversations not interrupted by perseverations about snacks or the arrangement of household items, remembering who I am when I’m not in charge of his care.

But returning is often an unexpected joy. A reaffirming, and genuine, good feeling.

It’s nice to see him grin when I walk in the house. He seems relieved I’m home, and not (I tell myself) just because my car is back where it belongs (he opens the garage door repeatedly to check).

I am a walking cliché of fondness-after-absence when I get a chance to be gone long enough to miss him. Probably because we mostly live in the inverse of that (pissiness-in-proximity?). My husband and I tag-team each other’s downtime and hunt for providers who can give us that elusive break as a couple. I don’t get much of a break from my kid, but I also hate to admit I need one.

I don’t always recognize how frayed my care cloak has become until time away mends it. 

I need respite not merely to get away, but to return and be with him. To be present and patient and reliable and kind. The compassionate caregiver he deserves.

Later that night, my son is agitated and stompy, and my recent furlough gives me space to feel empathy for whatever is bothering him instead of just being bothered myself. I leave him alone for a few minutes, and he’s calmer when I return.

He reaches his hand out toward me, palm down, fingers spread. I firmly pinch the tip of his index finger. He shifts his hand slightly, inviting me to continue our usual pattern of squeezes on each remaining finger and thumb. Then, his other hand is offered, to complete the cycle. A small smile and a connection, restored.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

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