The Realization

A Story by Aaron Betts

I wrote this as kind of a personal essay a few years after my divorce. It was a moment that I wanted to journal about and ended up turning into an essay.

The Realization

“Snuggle Time”

It feels good to relax after a rough day at work. Little by little the pressures of the day slide off me. It isn’t like I can just step out of them. I have to systematically remove the layers of armor that I strategically place on me for the day’s battles.

I survey my surroundings as the memorable smells that make my home mine penetrate my senses. It is almost impossible to pick them out individually, yet if I close my eyes, I know the instant I cross the threshold of the front door. Maybe it is the candles that burn in the bathroom, or the dry clumps of Play Dough that always seem to litter the carpet. Whatever it is that makes my home so well-known to me, it’s largely due to the three children that run through the rooms and down the hall playing some new imaginary game.

Without thinking, I pick up that wand that very well could be the most powerful thing in a household: the television remote. The droning high pitch hum that only a T.V. can produce fills the air as I press the big red power button. The channels soar by at an alarming speed that only someone who is channel surfing can appreciate. I glance at the clock �" 6:30 pm. I still have an hour.

I hear about divorces and custody battles, watch them on the T.V., and even read about them. Nothing of course could have prepared me for the darkness that I felt when my family was ripped apart without warning. No longer do I have the ability to see or even talk to my children when I want. The almighty and all knowing court system dictates that to me. Since I only get to see them twice a month now, the time spent with my kids is what I live for.

Unexpectedly the door bursts open and shakes me from my dark cloud. The best sound in the world explodes in my ears. In unison my three most favorite people in the world say “Hi Dad. We’re here.” I smile as my arms are suddenly full with the purest love a parent can feel. It is one of the few things that can dispel the blackness that has plagued me for the last twelve months.

As they tell me about their last two weeks at “mom’s house” they settle into a comfortable grove, almost as if they never left. I look at the clock �" 9 pm already? The time seems to move at an unnatural speed when they are here. I can’t believe it’s bedtime already. I try to keep things as familiar as possible for them and that means watching a movie together as they fall asleep. Better known in our house as “snuggle time”.

I push the button on the remote and suddenly, the iconical sound on the T.V. forms the ubiquitous introduction of a Disney movie. The magic images dance across the screen convincing us that this is entertainment. The ever vigilant mouse conveys a message of eternal happiness, if we can only retain a little piece of our imagination.

So what “classic” are we in for tonight? Toy Story, A Bug’s Life, Treasure Planet? I have seen them all so many times that I feel I have written them myself. It’s amazing really, the staggering ability a child has to watch and re-watch over and over again the same story. Yet, they never tire. They always look on with fervent anticipation to see if the good-guy will win, even as they quote the story while it plays.

I settle back into a cozy numbness, a necessary state of being, which enables me to watch Toy Story for the three hundredth time. A glaze forms over my eyes to keep them from closing, preventing my children from realizing that “snuggle time” just turned into an adventure. The music starts to blend together and the longest ninety minutes of life commences.

Slowly, the cries for juice penetrate my ears. They will do anything to keep from falling asleep. I think my children have a secret pact which enables them to feed off each other’s abhorrence of slumber. Just as one of them starts to nod off, a bolt of energy shoots across the room from the other two, revitalizing them all. I struggle with my patience as I get yet another glass of juice for Stitch, the alien child.

For whatever reason, Chandler, better known as Stitch, does not talk. Of course, he doesn’t have to; he has his two lieutenants to do his talking for him. “Oh, he’s three.” One will say if Chandler is asked his age. “No, he doesn’t like that.” Another will tell me when I feverishly try to find something he will eat. I didn’t worry at first but now I am a little concerned. Though everyone tells me he will grow out of it, a three year old should speak rather than grunt, right?

As my gaze falls on him, I smile. His unintelligible language and ability to break into anything child proof has earned him the nickname Stitch. His big blue eyes and hair that goes in five directions at once melt my heart with one glance.

I retrieve the final cup of juice that I am going to fetch tonight and settle back down into my throne. Unexpectedly, the alien child’s cohorts can’t hold out and fall asleep. Two down, and it is only 10 o’clock. I am beside myself. Could it be that I could have a whole hour with the new Harry Potter novel before I myself give in to exhaustion? I don’t want to get my hopes up. Chandler is stubborn.

As the movie ends I dare a peek over to where the little guy is laying. His eyes look closed. Maybe I actually hit all six numbers on the bedtime lottery tonight. Just then, his eyes flicker open. I knew it was too good to be true. Quietly, I watch him get up and walk over to the entertainment center and squat into his decision making position. It is serious business picking a movie and Chandler knows that he has me right where he wants me. This child knows that I want him asleep and in order to achieve this, we are going to have to watch another film. Can a child understand blackmail at such a young age?

All of a sudden, his little hand shoots out and grabs a DVD. He pulls his hand through the glassless door on the entertainment center, his handiwork of course, and presents me his choice. My heart sinks as my eyes �" though they try to refuse �" come to rest on the case that Chandler holds in his hands: Rugrats in Paris. How can a child, so young and innocent, be so malicious? If there is a way to wear out a DVD, this is the one that will fall victim. Even I can quote every line of this hand drawn “masterpiece”.

Reluctantly, I put the movie in the DVD player and resume my position in what has become to be known simply as “the green chair”. I try to settle back into my previous lull, but alas I cannot. I look around and notice the laptop next to my chair. I could play a game while he watches his movie. It’s a win-win situation. The question is, can I keep him from noticing that something more interesting is taking place nearby? With this techno-boy, that is certain death. The only thing worse than the mindless watching of yet another animated favorite is the inexhaustible ability Chandler has to play Nick Jr. on the Internet.

I slowly reach for the computer, and to my dismay, the little child that can’t hear you call his name from two feet away, suddenly lifts his head and stares straight at me. I feign interest in the glass of water I have sitting nearby and Chandler puts his head back down, not fully convinced that something more interesting isn’t happening just out of sight.

I try again to get comfortable. As I do, the little alien child does something completely against his torturous nature. He slowly gets up and staggers toward me with almost a drunken stupor. Silently, he crawls up the big green mountain in which the dad giant resides and cuddles up in my lap. He takes a few minutes of wiggling, kind of like a cat does before getting comfortable. Finally, he leans back and starts the rhythmic drinking of the sipper cup.

I’m elated. This is a dream come true. I am really going to get all three kids to sleep early enough that they won’t be unbearable in the morning. As we sit, however, something dreadful starts to happen. The cadenced sucking that originates from the sipper cup, along with the warm child that is lying in my lap causes my glossy eyes to return. Only this time it’s not pretend.

Slowly, I start to drift off to a land in which only grownups play. Where there is no mention of sipper cups, diapers, or even potty emergencies. A place that only exists in the lives of those who do not have children and in the dreams of those who do.

A foreign feeling on my face pulls me back to reality. Bringing myself back from the Neverland of sleep, I realize that it is the little hand of my son. He is rubbing it up and down the side of my now scratchy face. There is something that fascinates children by the face that starts smooth in the morning and ends up like a marshmallow rolled in the sand at the end of the day. I can hear his giggles as his little fingers dance against the grain of my whiskers. Out of the blue, something that is no less than a miracle transpires. He sits up and lowers the sipper cup out of his mouth. He takes both of his little hands and places them on either side of my face. Then, turning my face toward him to ensure that he has all of my attention, he says, in as clear a tone as I’ve ever heard, “I love you”.

Suddenly, the music from the Rugrats movie explodes through the speakers. The color erupts from the television screen and the realization of what “snuggle time” is all about settles over me like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s day. I can feel a warmth inside me build from a warm glow to a raging burn in a matter of seconds. The sting of tears cloud my vision as the tears fight to break through the tough exterior that men feel is so important. This is the first time Chandler has ever said more than his usual grunt which means “no”, or the rigid “yes” that follows a curt nod from his head. It is a simple moment of pure joy that pierces the darkness that has been my life for far too long already, yet that has only just begun. This is a genuine, uncontrived, display of the pure love that only a child can give and only a parent can understand.