Sunday, November 13, 2005
Simply Irresistible
I'm taking a parenting class at Max's school this year, and I've noticed something curious. Conflicts between pre-school aged children and their parents generally exist on one of three biologically-imperative fronts--eating, sleeping and elimination. I'm fortunate that my sons are hearty, healthy eaters, and that the one that has graduated to underpants seems psychologically unscathed by the process. (As for me, I came through Max's potty-training with only minor trauma.). Our major battleground is bedtime.
As is so often the case, when it comes to sleep, my kids are cut from different cloth. Max flips and flails like a trout on a riverbank right up until the moment sleep overtakes him. It's easy to tell when he's finally unconscious because his body actually ceases to move. When Reed takes to bed, he's a study in peaceful repose. Many nights I've believed him to be asleep for some time, only to find his eyes open, watching me. Although he's calm, he wants company, both for "lights out" and at each of the 3-4 hour intervals when he wakes during the night. He's picky, too--neither the company of his father, nor his brother, nor either of our devoted dogs will do.
The universal axiom for easing bedtime struggles is to establish a consistent bedtime routine. I'm the first to admit that repetition hasn't always been something I relished. (For many years, I believed that a trip wasn't a real vacation if I'd been to my destination before.) But I'm beginning to appreciate the virtues of routines, particularly where my kids are concerned. By now, our evening cadence has become so familiar to them, and perhaps so reassuring, that they will prompt me if I skip a step, inadvertently or otherwise.
On his first day of school this fall, Reed began a ritual that translates beautifully to bedtime, and someday soon I hope it improves our sleep. He squeezes me tightly, saying, "Hug." Then he pecks me on the cheek, saying, "Kiss." Another squeeze: "Big hug." Another smooch: "Big kiss." And so forth another 5 or 10 or 15 times, until he feels sufficiently loving or loved. We follow this with a Waltonesque round-robin:
"Good night, Boo."
"Good night, mommy."
"Good night, Max."
"Good night, mommy. "
"Sleep tight, Max.
"Sleep tight, mommy. Don't let the bed bugs bite."
"Sleep tight, Boo."
"Sleep tight."
"Sweet dreams, mommy."
"Sweet dreams, Max. I love you."
"I love you."
"Love you, Max."
"I love you, too, Boo."
At this point, Max usually flops about for a few minutes and drifts off. But Reed continues to talk: farm animals and related noises, every person, dog and horse he knows by name, beverage requests, what he did that day, what he wants to do tomorrow, on and on in a burst of impressive verbal acuity. I know now that he is likely to talk until I issue an ultimatum: I will stay in the room with little boys who keep to their beds and remain quiet.
For several days, I stuck to my pledge. And then Boo changed his tactics. If Max is the master of charm school, Boo is his eager disciple. Lately, when I've drawn the line in the sand, Boo begins to gently stroke my hair, whispering, "Mommy, mommy, mommy." And sleep or no sleep, who could walk away from that?
As is so often the case, when it comes to sleep, my kids are cut from different cloth. Max flips and flails like a trout on a riverbank right up until the moment sleep overtakes him. It's easy to tell when he's finally unconscious because his body actually ceases to move. When Reed takes to bed, he's a study in peaceful repose. Many nights I've believed him to be asleep for some time, only to find his eyes open, watching me. Although he's calm, he wants company, both for "lights out" and at each of the 3-4 hour intervals when he wakes during the night. He's picky, too--neither the company of his father, nor his brother, nor either of our devoted dogs will do.
The universal axiom for easing bedtime struggles is to establish a consistent bedtime routine. I'm the first to admit that repetition hasn't always been something I relished. (For many years, I believed that a trip wasn't a real vacation if I'd been to my destination before.) But I'm beginning to appreciate the virtues of routines, particularly where my kids are concerned. By now, our evening cadence has become so familiar to them, and perhaps so reassuring, that they will prompt me if I skip a step, inadvertently or otherwise.
On his first day of school this fall, Reed began a ritual that translates beautifully to bedtime, and someday soon I hope it improves our sleep. He squeezes me tightly, saying, "Hug." Then he pecks me on the cheek, saying, "Kiss." Another squeeze: "Big hug." Another smooch: "Big kiss." And so forth another 5 or 10 or 15 times, until he feels sufficiently loving or loved. We follow this with a Waltonesque round-robin:
"Good night, Boo."
"Good night, mommy."
"Good night, Max."
"Good night, mommy. "
"Sleep tight, Max.
"Sleep tight, mommy. Don't let the bed bugs bite."
"Sleep tight, Boo."
"Sleep tight."
"Sweet dreams, mommy."
"Sweet dreams, Max. I love you."
"I love you."
"Love you, Max."
"I love you, too, Boo."
At this point, Max usually flops about for a few minutes and drifts off. But Reed continues to talk: farm animals and related noises, every person, dog and horse he knows by name, beverage requests, what he did that day, what he wants to do tomorrow, on and on in a burst of impressive verbal acuity. I know now that he is likely to talk until I issue an ultimatum: I will stay in the room with little boys who keep to their beds and remain quiet.
For several days, I stuck to my pledge. And then Boo changed his tactics. If Max is the master of charm school, Boo is his eager disciple. Lately, when I've drawn the line in the sand, Boo begins to gently stroke my hair, whispering, "Mommy, mommy, mommy." And sleep or no sleep, who could walk away from that?
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