Esmé has asked that I share the following letter with the Cute Syndrome Blog readers. She has dictated this letter, which is addressed to me, via mental telepathy, body language, and word approximations that amount to “maman, noooo, no, ma, dada, nah nah nah.” She expects that I will share the letter with all of you so that you can know what she is dealing with here. I will, per usual, respect her wishes.
It is currently 4:15 on Friday afternoon. I know you told me that you are going out tonight and that I will be with my caregiver, Mayah. I know you said you need to do things to prepare, like brush the knots out of your hair and change out of the shirt I have carefully decorated with snot and drool and love.
But, before you can do so I need to explain a few things to you.
These are important things. Pay attention, Maman.
Maybe even take notes?
This afternoon I was yawning after my therapy sessions, yet I did not fall asleep in the car ride home. I did not fall asleep in the car ride home because I was busy with the very important business of trying not to fall asleep. The look you saw on my face when you glanced into the backseat–you know the one where my eyelids are heavy and I have a little smirk on my face?–that is the sign that I absolutely was not going to sleep, ok?
When we arrived at home and you brought me into the house, I threw a fit because you were not paying attention to the fact that I was absolutely not going to sleep. It was your fault that I threw a fit. Because I was trying to tell you that I was absolutely not going to sleep. I even yawned as I complained, so you would know that I wasn’t tired.
So what did you do? You brought me into your giant comfortable bed and placed me over your shoulder so I could wipe my face back and forth against your shirt. For a moment, just a fleeting moment mind you, I forgot that I was absolutely not going to sleep ever ever ever and I enjoyed resting there.
You thought I was going to sleep, didn’t you?
I could tell, because you relaxed a little bit and your breathing pattern changed ever-so-slightly.
Your breathing changed and it reminded me that I was certainly not going to sleep. So I cried.
For some time you held me, patting my back, saying soothing things, thinking I was crying because I was going to fall asleep any minute. You thought I would tire myself out and then drift off. This was a horrible miscalculation on your part. And while the back patting was nice, those soothing things you said made me mad.
Because I was not tired. I was not going to go to sleep.
I cried and wiggled against the blankets and blew my nose on your shoulder and babbled naughty words at you for some time.
Finally you got the point and gave up. You set me free of my blankets and the oppression of your attempt to make me sleep (despite the fact that I was clearly not ever going to sleep again). I was immediately happier. We hung out in bed, me beside you, chatting, wiggling, kicking my feet against you. It was really good. It was fun. I especially liked when you leaned over and stuck your face in the crook of my neck and blew. It tickled so much that I laughed and laughed and laughed.
I laughed as if to say: Maman, don’t you see how the sun shines on you when you do not attempt to make me sleep. Don’t you see how good things could be between us? …if only you would listen to my instructions.
It went on and on like this for so long. So much fun!
And then I sat up and threw myself down onto the bed, laughing. And then I sat up and threw myself against your lap, laughing. And then I sat up and through myself down on the bed…crying.
Maman, did you breathe funny again? You must have. Or cleared your throat. Or perhaps you touched your phone? I can feel when you touch your phone even if I am not looking. Even if all you are doing is checking the time. Anyway, something changed in the air and it was all wrong. ALL WRONG!
I write this letter to you now, from the only spot that I could find that wasn’t horrible. I have thrown myself here, my face in your lap, my knees tucked under me in order to recover from all the things that went wrong today. I’ve been trying to tell you for hours that I am not going to sleep. And yet, you insisted on trying. You insisted on breathing wrong. You insisted on patting my back. You insisted on snuggling and making me giggle.
You have wasted so much time, Maman, that it is almost time for you to start getting ready. Might I suggest a shower? You are, after all, going out in public.
So here we are. Learn from your mistakes Maman, please.
P.S. I am asleep.