Hello and welcome to Musing Interruptus. Today, a tale as old as time. The monster under the bed. Talk about strange bedfellows. Be forewarned.
When I was born, my monster was born. Sleeping under my crib and then under my bed. When the space under the bed was too tight, my monster moved to the closet. We grew up together. When I learned to read, he demanded I read him bedtime stories, demanded cookies and dry cinnamon toast crunch cereal. My monster never understood I didn’t choose to be born at the same time he was. I couldn't break it to him. As I grew, he watched me learn and dream, waiting patiently for me after school, watching me play outside with my friends, sometimes alone. After all, he had come to be when I arrived home from the hospital. The tiny monster under my crib, pacing like a little velociraptor, practicing his growl. Little did he know that he would not be frightening me, but frightening those who came to scare me. He was my protector. Seems he missed induction to monsters under the bed or maybe he went into the guardian angel course by mistake.
My monster fiercely defended me from the grumbles coming up from the first floor. He was so brave, never faltering, never blinking in the face of the hurricanes. Those high-speed winds could turn the house upside down, but my monster always kept us right side up. Amazing, he was always my age, no matter what age, and he knew how to take the most appropriate form. Whatever the case called for, he could shape-shift into a shadow, a hug, a shield, the voice in my head that reminded me I was not alone, my knight, never errant, my constant friend and playmate, battling the horrors cloaked by the dark. My philosophy teacher, as I was forced to explain life, God, and loss to him. I was scared of things hiding under the stairs, wanting to grab my feet, pull me through the rise between steps on the staircase. I wonder now what I was really afraid of. Was it really the aliens living under the stairs or behind the refrigerator? Was it the miracle of make-believe?
Life changes on a dime. I was afraid my monster was left behind when we moved so urgently. So much was left behind. I was still so young. I needed my monster close to me. Especially back then. There would be no house, no bed to dive into, to sob and wail after an injustice and hurt feelings, ever again. At least if I had my monster, I would feel protected. I couldn’t imagine the sadness of my monster, waiting in that empty house. Roaming around, making the floorboards creek, sleeping in the empty closet, pushing himself down the stairs, belly-down, feet first. Our things, you know? Would he be poking his head out the window, wondering what time I would be back? How many bedtime stories had he missed out on? Who would bring him cereal?  How many scary things had happened, he could have protected me from? If I was feeling the hole in my chest, I’m sure he was feeling it too. This is the only connection I never questioned. Continue Reading

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