The Bedtime Blues

An eternity ago when the air was clear and my hearing still worked, I was pleasantly and happily taking care of myself. Today I am changing the sheets, checking under the bed for rotten and shriveled apple cores and peanut butter sandwiches as crusty as my grandmother's underwear, and seeking for that "peace that passes as understanding" for it certainly has bypassed me.
The bedtime blues continue.
You remember the song, "Ten Little Monkeys?" They weren't asleep either as I recall. Neither was the king in the story, "King Bidgood in the Bathtub." In case you missed that one, the king doesn't care to rule his kingdom. After the "Butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker" in other words, everyone in the entire court, including the queen, have tried and failed to get the poor shrivel of a man out of the bathtub, the Page comes in. With one flick of his finger he pulls the plug.
"Glub, glub, blub."
I can't help laughing at that. At the same time, it worked! The Page pulled the plug! He didn't try to fish with the kind, or eat with the king, or even dance with the king. He went straight to the problem! The plug! Could this strategy work for bedtime?
The story has been tried, the glass of water drunk, the stuffed animal cuddled, the itchy pajamas traded for a more spectacular pair, and the blankets have been re-arranged a million times. Oh, yes, and the good old nightlight-like a beacon of calm in an otherwise busy night of making mother crazy-has been turned on. What…oh what pray then?
When I was little I remember my mother coming into my room with a tall glass of milk and a stack of crackers as tall as my headboard. Well, maybe I'm exaggerating, just a little. But, it worked, you know? After eating all of that food I was genuinely tired, my belly like a Buddha on a lake of cream. Even my brother, who managed to converse with me from the walls of the next room as we grew older, could not keep me from the sleep that was mine. I was in the "Land of Nod."
I thought I could use this "plug" routine with my own children, but it never worked. There cheeks as puffy-fat as a blown up cat, they came to the alcove of the kitchen grinning at me with strange brown matter stuck between their teeth. "More, mommy…"
More? Unbelievable! But then, my children truly love graham crackers and milk.
A thought occurs to me that perhaps a lock on the outside of the door might work. I am thinking of my brother Todd, who, at the age of ten, was an avid sleepwalker. One evening my mother discovered him walking the neighborhood, directing traffic that wasn't there, that could have been. And it was "the could've been" that created a fear in my mother's eyes that I'd seen a few time before, like when we crossed the street, rode our bikes (especially in the learning stages), or went down the street to play with a friend. And yet, she didn't lock his door on the outside, although I wonder now how well she slept after that.
I remember vividly when my youngest child, Bethany, then about two or three, wanted to "come sleep with daddy and mommy." This was after the story, the prayer, and the kiss. A few of my friends had given in to such a request, at the detriment of their personal time together. I did not want this to happen to my husband and I. And yet, night after night, rather than sleep in her own bedroom, she slept on the other side of our bedroom door. We did not lock our door, but neither was she allowed in.
Perhaps it would be safe to say here that things are sometimes worse in the beginning before they get any better. But what of any heroic feat? What seemingly desperate endeavor isn't eventually turned into a valley of hope, and an eventual cure? What about the new job, the new marriage, sometimes even-dare I say it…the new haircut that you loathe but must grow into?
What of those monkeys jumpin' on the bed? Believe it or not, those monkeys will stop jumping and be more than grateful to jump into bed if they know it's what you expect of them. And if they don't?
I am no therapist, not even a psychologist, but I know this: Kids since the beginning of time have hated to go to bed. (You were one of them too, remember?) The only thing we can really do is make bedtime more pleasant for our little ones and for ourselves, the mothers and fathers, who care for them. Time is short. Our children will grow. And we will love them no matter how painful the crick in our neck has become from curling up at the bottom of their bed.
Perhaps we'll love them even more.

Published in Healthy Family Magazine