Schooled

We are trying something new at bedtime. Actually, we have just thrown bedtime out the window. Ever since Henry started sleeping more or less through the night, right after he turned one, we've had one sort or another of a bedtime routine, just as all the worthless sleep books advise. We've tried reading three stories, one story, no stories, unlimited stories, singing, CDs, starting late so he will be so tired he'll just have to go to sleep, starting early because probably he's overtired and can't sleep. We've tried a nice relaxing bath before bed, and we've nixed the overstimulating bath before bed. We've tried lying down with him, sitting up next to him, sitting outside the bedroom door. My conclusion is that this is mug's game. If I think there should be a bedtime, and Henry doesn't go to bed, I feel bad about myself because I failed, I become enraged at him for his contumacy, and I weep with frustration as I think about my precious minutes of time alone slipping away. And he goes to bed whenever the hell he is ready anyway. And in the end, I cannot really explain to myself why I don't make him eat if he doesn't want to eat, why I didn't force him to use the toilet until he was ready, why I try to let him test out his physical capabilities without help or hindrance, full of theories about him learning to listen to his own body--but damn it, when I say it's bedtime, you sleep, kid, and like it!

I conclude that this is yet another case of me comparing myself (mostly unknown even to myself) to Mary Poppins, the Mary Poppins from the books, whom the children adore because she is magical but whom they fear because of her cold blue eye. Sometimes I play the hairy-backed Madonna, just one step removed from the forest canopy, but the truth is when you have been weaned as I was on Frances Hodgson Burnett and P.L. Travers, you may find yourself saddled with an inner Edwardian nanny who hasn't the slightest interest in evolutionary adaptations and just wonders disapprovingly why your children are so grubby and ill-mannered, your hair so frowzy, and your beds unmade.

Once I realized that my problem is totally imaginary, it became much easier to solve. A week and a half ago, after running it by Peter, I told Henry we'd do something different at bedtime that night. He immediately ran away to hide under a table. "No!" I said, "You should listen to this! You will like it!"

I explained that he would not have a bedtime anymore, that he would wash up and put on his pajamas, I would read a book to him, and then he could do whatever quiet thing he wanted for as long as he wanted until he was ready to go to sleep. He cackled with excitement.

"But I will stop talking to you and just do my own things," I said. He didn't care. I think he was lost in contemplation of some hazy vision of Liberty Hall.

Ten days into the new regime, I am calling it a success. Henry has gone to bed every night later than I would like, but earlier than his previous average. With reminders, he gets himself into pajamas and brushes his teeth, no manhandling required. I read one or two books, then he huddles at the nightlight and studies a book of Mickey Mouse cartoons for a while. When he's sleepy, he asks me to come lie down with him; he's usually out within two minutes.


**

The other night, I was tired and repentant, after a crabby afternoon followed by an emotionally restorative but physically draining Crossfit class, so I just lay down in the bed with him for story time and stayed.

He was keyed up and kept pacing around the room, saying "Good day!" with a decisive nod, over and over again, as in "What a good day!" This seemed to be a case of protesting too much, since at least part of the day had been notably stinky, thanks to my bad mood. I said something about how grouchy I had been, and how sorry I was now.

He came to lie down on his back with his head in my lap.

"It must be hard to be a Mommy," he said.

"It is hard sometimes," I said. "Although it's wonderful, too. It's hard because sometimes I still feel like a kid inside, and I get way too mad about things. Do you know what is especially hard for me? When I see you and James hitting and biting and taking things away from each other."

"But Mommy," he said. "Kids are like that."