The time you miss it most of all

"In the wee small hours of the morning...that's the time you miss him most of all." 
- lyric, In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

Ask anyone who has been divorced what they miss about being married, and you will get a wide range of answers.  Some recount snapshots of happy memories with their spouse, such as a carefree day spent on vacation together, or sharing a private joke in a room full of strangers...little moments when their love was still new...or even tangible.  To a certain degree, I envy those people.  These are not the things that come to mind for me.  Maybe the happy times were just too few and far between; or maybe the pain from the divorce itself is still so near that it strangles those memories before they can even rise to the surface.

The occasions where I miss my married life often take me by surprise in the silliest ways and almost make me laugh.  Like the last time I mowed the lawn.  Yep, can't say I'm too thrilled about that aspect of single life. 

But other times, those moments are like punches in the gut.  The kind that leaves a mark.

This week Ben has been suffering from a pretty nasty stomach bug.  Low-grade fever, vomiting, and general yuckiness all around.  It started when we were visiting family over the weekend.  He seemed to get better after 24 hours except for weakness and a lack of appetite, so I thought we were over the hump.  But Monday he came home from school and collapsed on the couch, refusing to move or eat for the rest of the night.  Then, just as I was asking him if he was ready for bed, with no warning, he projectile vomited.  I don't know if you've ever seen this in real life, but let me tell you, it is kind of scary.  And it went EVERYWHERE as I carried him from the couch to the bathroom -- couch pillows, rug, floor, walls, ME...nothing was spared en route to the potty.

Poor kid.  After he finished, he looked around and seemed to share my dread.  "Look at this mess!" he said, cracking a joke as only my sweet boy can in the midst of general horror and discomfort.

I put him directly in the tub, washed him off then carried him to his bed.  I put clean pajamas on him and said, "Baby, can you read your books while Mommy cleans this up?"

"OK," he responded dutifully.  Not a whine, not a complaint.

So I proceeded with the cleanup.  It was no small task, let me tell you.  It took at least thirty minutes to at least get it off the floors, rug and walls and start a load of laundry.  I would save the couch for later.  And the whole time, I am listening to an electronic book-reader toy read my son stories aloud in his room.  Something I would be doing if I was still married.  Because my husband would be cleaning up the mess so I could comfort my very sick son.  Or vice versa.  Either way, he would not have some stupid piece of red plastic with a battery in it reading him stories about Winnie the Pooh and the hundred acre wood.  He would have loving arms around him, kissing his forehead, telling him not to worry about all that mess because Daddy (or Mommy) would get it all cleaned up.  And he wouldn't have to be a five-year-old sitting in his room by himself, being strong and brave, when he feels so very sick.

That's the time I miss it most of all.