I feel terrible. Tonight when I put C in bed, he wouldn’t stop crying. I asked him what was wrong, but he couldn’t respond coherently. I knew he was exhausted after a full day of therapy, so I rubbed his back until he drifted off.
It wasn’t until an hour later that I realized what was bothering him: I’d left his monkey downstairs. This is the monkey he carries with him everywhere, the monkey that’s been with him since the beginning. This is the monkey he treasures so much that we actually have a backup just in case. This is the monkey that, for a while, C referred to as “Munchee.”
C, sometimes I wish I could understand you better. I really do.
But it’s not his fault. I should have been paying closer attention. I brought monkey upstairs and put him right where he belongs.