I Should Really Do Bedtime More Often – Before It’s Too Late

I don’t often get to put my nearly-five-year-old to bed anymore. We say goodnight at the top of the stairs and she goes off to brush her teeth with my husband while I put the toddler down.

I got the chance to do it the other night when she insisted that we swap, and as I lay there with her, it hit me with a whack to the chest: this is it.

I don’t just perch on the side of the toddler-sized bed, I climb in under the sheets and we snuggle down. She gives me a teddy to cuddle. We read a few books and I do the silly voices. At the moment it’s James and the Giant Peach. Then it’s lights off and all we can see is the glow of the Gro-clock. She still obeys it religiously, even two years later, and even though we’ve told her that it’s ok to come in to us if she wakes up; that her brother shows no such restraint. But no, she never leaves her bed, even if she wakes up because of a nightmare or if she feels sick. She will lie there and cry and we have to hope that we’ll hear it. Recently, she had a terrifying dream about lava and the only evidence of it was the dark circles under her eyes the next morning. She said that she didn’t want to come in because we need our sleep.

She is at the age now where empathy has grown in and she puts me to shame with how well she’s mastered it. It has never come easily to me. Since having kids I’ve gotten better, and through teaching them I’ve taught myself, but it can be hard to react with kindness first. Sometimes she’ll cry over something silly, and maybe I’m trying to peel the potatoes, and he’ll pull her hair and she’ll scream bloody murder, and I have to stuff down the desire to tell her that it’s not a big deal, that she shouldn’t cry, that she’s fine and it’s not his fault. Because even if she’s overreacting she is still entitled to her feelings, and it’s my job is to acknowledge them. I am learning that and I am trying so hard to be better. I need as much practice as them. More, probably.

I stroke her back and sing any song she wants. She likes Regina Spektor and the stupid dolphin noises. I put my nose in her hair and breathe her in and tell her that I’m sorry for being grumpy, and that I love her more than anything. I tell her that I’m proud of her, no matter what she does. She says that’s silly, to be proud of her for things she hasn’t done yet, but I say no, that’s not silly, that’s love.

I am writing this to remind myself to offer to do her bedtime more often, and not just wait to be asked. Even if I get shot down in favour of Daddy nine times out of ten. If I can squeeze in a few more nights of being packed into that narrow bed, my hip hanging off the side, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars which used to reside in my old bedroom, I will savour every second. I’ll emerge from the room with wet eyes and a recharged heart because this is it. The whole point. And there is nothing in this world as intense as the love for the human you made as you cradle them in the dark.

First published at theairingcupboard.me and reproduced with permission.