Guilty mom

Tonight was the third night in a row that Henry wailed when I put him down for bed. It was an angry, betrayed sort of wailing. The only thing worse than letting him cry it out is letting him cry it out while he's screaming, "Mommy! Mommy!"

I feel like that woman in Texas who hit the homeless man with her car and then left him stuck in her windshield for a week in her garage, calling for her and pleading for help, until he died. Really--that guilty.

The strange thing is Henry hasn't cried for more than five minutes about bedtime in about a year. Last week he didn't even want to cuddle anymore. I'd just turn out the light and he'd say, "bed," and I'd lay him down and go about my afternoon or evening.

I was ready to declare victory over the whole sleep issue.

Last night I went in a couple of times, because I was sure he must be covered in poo or caught in the crib bars. Really, though, I could tell by his cry that he was simply overtired.

And there's the rest of the guilt: he's overtired because he's gone to bed more than an hour past his bedtime for three of the last four nights. Why? Because I've been out to dinner and have lost track of time.

Tonight I was having Chinese food at my next door neighbors', and Henry started saying "bed" at about 7:45 (his usual bedtime). Although I said I was leaving, I ended up talking for another 25 minutes as I edged toward the door.

I don't know how long he cried for tonight. 15 minutes? 20 minutes? I got a new air conditioner today, in honor of the heatwave, so I couldn't hear him so well. It was a blessing, and I feel guilty about that, too. At least I feel like I'm doing some penance if I have to listen to him in his misery.

This is all on top of the fact that we missed seeing his friend Santiago this afternoon, after Henry had been talking about him and I'd been promising a visit all day. But then Henry took a super long nap, which I didn't interrupt because of the above sleep issues, and when he woke up he didn't want to get dressed, and I didn't feel like pushing him on it.

When we finally got in the car, and then hit traffic, I knew we wouldn't make it to the park in time to see his friend.

"See Santi?" he asked from the backseat.

"Honey," I said, "I don't think we're going to see Santi today."

And his eyes got huge, and tears flooded in, and he asked again through trembling lips, "Santi?" And when I said no he began to bawl.

Mommy broke Henry's heart. Again.

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I know I only write these sniveling little pieces about parenthood, but the truth is I love it. I love him. I love the way he runs, I love the way he tries to count ("two, two, nine, three"), and I love the way we dance together to the jazzy Sesame Street theme song that runs during the credits. Some days it's so good it's ridiculous.