It’s the end of an era.
Our monitor is dead.
I have always been a paranoid person: barricading hotel room doors, triple checking the house locks and obsessively holding the monitor to my ear when Little Mister was a baby to make sure he was breathing.
Out of habit, I’ve kept the monitor. We technically don’t need it – our house is so small I can see Little Mister’s room without getting out of bed. But every night, I turn it on, the blurry image illuminating our room. There’s something comforting about waking up in the middle of the night and looking over and seeing my little man tangled in his blankets under a mountain of stuffed animals.
I knew it was on it’s way out. If the plug wasn’t in just so, it would beep incessantly. You couldn’t touch it or breath on it, and it would work. But, I was still connected to my little boy.
We have always been very lucky that our Little Mister rarely wakes up in the middle of the night (cue the sound of me cursing our lives). I can count on one hand the number of times he’s woken up. And even when he does wake up, he never gets out of bed. He simple SCREAMS at the top of his lungs from his room.
Me, jumping out of my skin and a deep sleep.
I open the door to his room. “What’s up, bud?”
“My teddy bear fell on the floor, can you pick it up?”
I guess I should be glad that as he gets older he still needs me?
Well, this morning, the monitor died. A piece fell out. It’s over.
And even though we probably haven’t needed it for years, I haven’t slept without the buzzing (after a few years, it started making weird sounds).
But I guess this is part of us both growing up.