GOODNIGHT AGAIN
Inchworm, inchworm
Measuring the marigolds
Seems to me, you'd stop and see
How beautiful they are
- Inchworm, by Frank Loesser, from the film Hans Christian Anderson
When his small body is still from the busyness of being two (feet have stopped their bouncing and tapping, hands have relaxed from reaching and examining, voice has quieted from babbling and humming, eyes have closed from seeking and learning) and is finally asleep, I fly to my son’s room in a quiet bound. Slowly turn the door handle. Softly tiptoe into the darkened room. Gently lift his head and place it back on the pillow. Pull the dangling feet and arms out from the crib railings. Snuggle his Teddy bear and fox beside him and tuck a light blanket over him. If he stirs or startles, opening his eyes to see who’s there, I whisper to him, “It’s okay, I’m just tucking you in. It’s still time to sleep. I love you.”
At first, the habit of slipping into my two-year-old son Ocean’s room after he’d fallen asleep for his nap was a solution to a problem. Always on the shallow end for naps (I laugh when reading how kids his age should nap for two to three hours when his average is an hour fifteen) when he began to sleep for less than an hour and wake up cranky, I began to despair. Anxiously I’d watch the monitor and the clock, cursing when he’d wake up under an hour. He’d cry from fatigue yet refuse to return to slumber, exhausting us both.
Through my diligently paranoid watching of his sleep, I observed a pattern. When he fell asleep on his stomach, he often slept through normal repositioning, and therefore slept longer. On his back, he’d wake up while flipping himself over and be prematurely up for good. So, I made a plan. As soon as he was asleep (on his back), I crept into his room and carefully turned him over. He stayed asleep, and, he slept past an hour and woke up without tears. It worked!
After a week, my ritual of re-tucking him in had solidified to more than a necessity. I simply felt more at peace if I saw him cozily under his blanket rather than scrunched in a corner of the crib or splayed mid-action in what looked like an uncomfortable position. I felt better if he woke up with his beloved Teddy and Foxy beside him rather than on the floor after having been jettisoned from his crib as they often are as he plays before sleeping.
I felt slightly embarrassed when confessing this pattern to my husband Andy. It’s a little much to go into Ocean’s room every day just to tuck him in again. I risk waking him up by doing something he likely no longer needs. Yet I can’t stop, because to stop returning to Ocean’s room would mean to miss out on the sweet moments when he half wakes and I whisper reassurances to him while stroking his hair. I reason, Maybe he sleeps longer because he knows I’ve checked on him. He knows I’m always close by. To prove this logic or not is a science experiment I’ll forego. This is now our normal. I’ll take it for as long as it lasts.
In the end, I know this habit is just for me. Ocean’s bout of micro naps would have likely ended on their own and may have had nothing to do with my intervention. I’m being overprotective, a hovering helicopter mom who worries too much. I accept it.
In this area, I accept without thought of change because it’s not hurting him. If the second goodnights are only for me then so be it. One hope I have for my children is for them to always feel loved. I don’t hold back from giving them hugs and kisses, tickles and endearments, because there is only so long where they won’t just allow it but will bask in these unabashed expressions of love. I waited so long to have children, surrendering the possibility of them in my heart only to be bestowed this boon of parenthood in my late thirties. It may be superfluous to tuck my son in a second time, and may only be for myself, yet with this probability, I’m at peace. I am loving him the best I can.
Everyone who has kids who are grown shares the same sentiment: It goes by so fast. Enjoy every moment. I understand what they’re saying even while desiring to wish away phases like tantrums and teething. There are days which are so wearying, days when I am dragging myself through another diaper change, another mess to clean up, another shower which is more anxious than soothing because tears and chaos are always moments away. I feel the tension between looking forward to my son having more self-sufficiency alongside the aching knowledge of how much I’ll miss as he grows.
I’ll miss the way he runs his fingers through my hair with an absentminded sweetness.
I’ll miss the games we play in the car at red lights, like creeping my fingers up his leg and tickling him as he wriggles with laughter.
I’ll miss him wanting me to entertain him during lunch by reading books or singing.
I’ll miss how he often stands up in bed for one more hug before saying goodnight.
Goodnight, my darling, and goodnight again. I’ll tuck you in for as long as you’ll let me. When this habit comes to its natural end, at least I’ll know: I did my best to enjoy every moment. I hovered over you, more than needed at times, yet with the sincerity of love.
Goodnight. In a little bit, I’ll say goodnight again.
