We still do the full bedtime routine around here. Once they’ve brushed and gotten into bed, we go up to tuck them in. We read a story to the youngest, spend a few – several! – minutes chatting with the older two. We turn out the light and make sure they are comfy and secure, let them know what’s on for tomorrow, and wish them good night.
Sometimes we even make it out of the room at that point. Usually they try to draw it out as long as possible, though.
Since our older two are now going to bed around 9:30 or even 10, that means Sir Monkeypants and I are “on the clock” until pretty late. So late that I’m often asleep on the couch by the time the older two are going up, but they still want a tuck in, still want a parent to come up and see them off for the night.
Sir Monekypants and I have mixed feelings about this. On one hand, they aren’t always going to want to be tucked in (…right?). Eventually they’ll be busy in the evenings or staying up later than us and having a parent hover anxiously at their bedside will be so very last year, and then we’ll miss these little moments. And I do like having a little check in with the kids at the very end of the day – a chance for them to talk about anything that is upsetting them, or just to reassure them that everything will be okay in the morning, or to laugh together over a shared experience.
But it gets harder and harder to push aside our time for bedtime. It used to be we’d tuck everyone in by 8, then have a couple of hours together to watch some grown up TV or chat or battle each other at Mario Kart. Time to just flake out and remind ourselves that we were something other than Mom and Dad, once.
It’s a weird time, these in-between days when they are both children and yet moving to adulthood. They still need us and want us but we no longer get the breaks of naptime and early bedtimes. I love my kids and want to hang out with them…but morning, noon, and night? Hm.
The other day I was putting the youngest to bed, and she’d had a hard day and I was doing all the usual Mom soothing stuff, making her feel better. Out of nowhere I remembered a time – this goes back at least three or four years – when she was having trouble falling asleep every night, claiming she was afraid of bad dreams. I somehow managed to convince her that I was able to actually see her dreams, floating gently in clouds over her head, as she was settling into bed for the night. Each night I’d tell her what colour her dreams were (always happy shades of pink, yellow, turquoise) and then I’d “pluck” the bad dreams out by waving my hands over her head, pulling little imaginary tufts away and dropping them in the garbage. It was so hokey I always thought that she could see right through me, and maybe she could, but that didn’t stop her from asking night after night – she couldn’t go to sleep unless Mommy cleared away the bad dreams.
It’s such a lovely thought, don’t you think – that we, as parents, have the absolute power to take bad stuff out of our kids’ brains, their lives, their dreams, and just throw it away. Even though we don’t do that whole dreams routine anymore (when did it stop, exactly?), I think I still have kind of the same effect at bedtime – giving them a moment of comfort, a moment of quiet, a moment of pure love to send them off into dreamland.
And that’s a nice thing, and a good thing, if a little bit of a tiring thing.
Someday, my heart whispers, someday…this will pass. And it will be a sad thing and a happy thing and a bittersweet thing.