You guys,
When I was a kid I was not allowed out of my bedroom at night. I wasn’t even allowed out of my bed. I shared a room with my older sister and she fell asleep quickly while I laid awake listening to every sound that let me know people were still awake—footsteps, the muffled voices of my parents, sometimes the television. Eventually, my parents would trudge up the stairs and turn off the hall light. I learned to stay quiet because when I called out to my mom and told her I couldn’t sleep she told me to “think about something happy.” When an image of presents under a Christmas tree didn’t work she told me to get on my hands and knees and shake my head back and forth. I tried this, too, and fell into my pillow, spinning. My room had a shared wall with my parents’ bedroom and I strained to hear them talking in bed together. Eventually they too would fall asleep, and then I’d be completely alone.
Bedtime is a different experience with my toddlers. They’re rarely in their beds and they’re always opening the door. If you were to be in my house from 7:00-9:00 PM you would hear whining, negotiating, wailing, yelling, stomping, threats, consequences, and apologies. I will sometimes ask a fellow parent of toddlers, “What’s bedtime like in your house?” I want to know that it’s also terrible, that I’m not alone, that I’m not doing it all wrong.
One night, after a long day in which neither of them napped and both of them were sick and I hoped for a “good bedtime,” George was exhausted and ready for sleep. He’d thrown up the night before in the top bunk, so tonight we put his old toddler bed mattress on the floor, next to Layla’s lower bunk. Layla took leaping jumps from her bed onto his mattress while George laid in it. “Stop jumping on his bed,” I said. She kept jumping and the two of them laughed. “Layla,” I said louder this time, “stop jumping on his bed!” She kept jumping. I picked her up and put her on her bed, and this made her laugh even harder. She jumped on his bed again. I picked her up and carried her into George’s old room. I put her on the floor and she continued to laugh. “I told you to stop!” I yelled.
I didn’t know what to do with her. Layla usually listened to me, even if she didn’t want to. On nights she didn’t want to brush her teeth, I told her, sternly, to open her mouth now. At that, she tilted her head back, mouth open, crying, and stayed completely still as I brushed her teeth. George, on the other hand, will claw at me, hit me, scream a piercing scream in my ear. If I raise my voice at Layla at all she will cry. If I raise my voice at George he will raise his own voice higher. On more than one occasion I’ve said, “I’m disappointed in you,” and he’s replied, “Well I’m disappointed in YOU!”
“Why are you disappointed in me?” I’ve challenged him.
“Because you’re not supposed to yell at me.”
I am always apologizing for yelling at my kids. And then I keep yelling.
Sam and I had recently decided to alternate bedtime because when we both did it together neither of us would get a good night’s sleep. It was my night. I had to handle it on my own. I had to stay fucking calm. I bent down and pointed my finger in Layla’s face. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to take something away.”
I had no idea what to take away. I had no leverage. She didn’t care about anything.
“Mama,” she said, “just don’t take away my stuffed animals.”
“Perfect!” I shouted, victorious. “I’m taking ALL your stuffed animals.”
I stepped purposefully back into their bedroom and scooped up the twelve or so stuffed animals shoved near the foot of her bed. Then I went into the playroom and found more. I carried them downstairs and tossed them into our bedroom. When I came back upstairs I said to Layla, “All your stuffed animals are gone.”
She slammed the bedroom door shut. I opened it. “We do not slam doors in this house,” I said, then walked back towards their bedroom to check on George. Layla appeared in the door frame. “You leave that door open, Layla. If you shut that door again—” She shut the door. George let out a little gasp. Then he laughed.
I flew down the stairs and found the rest of the stuffed animals in the living room. Every single one. I put all of them in our bedroom. Then I went back up to the playroom to make sure I didn’t miss any. I found Layla’s Barbie doll and held it out for her to see. “Say goodbye to Barbie,” I said.
This time I stayed downstairs. I sat on a chair in the living room, feeling that out-of-control feeling I felt so often parenting. Why did it always come to this?
From somewhere inside I heard the quiet voice:
Because you’re selfish. You want them to go to bed so you can go to bed so you can get up at 4:00 AM and have time for deep work.
I rolled my eyes. Whatever, voice.
It went on:
Remember when you had that pregnancy scare, and you were sure you were pregnant? And then you found out you weren’t, and you swore that you would be more patient with the kids, especially at bedtime, because they wouldn’t be little forever, and at least you wouldn’t be up for all hours of the night with a newborn?
And remember when you were little, and you were scared of the dark, and you weren’t allowed out of your bedroom, and you stayed up late into the night while everyone else slept, and how horrible that was? And how you just wished your mom would have stayed with you, and patted your head or rubbed your back until you fell asleep?
I slowly walked back up the stairs. Both of them were out of bed by now. George, seeing me approach, ran back to his bed. “Mama, are you going to take away music from Layla tomorrow, since she wasn’t listening?”
On car rides, George liked to listen to The Magic Treehouse series and Layla liked to listen to music. We alternated between chapters and songs. Taking away story or music had become a go-to threat.
“No, bud, I already took away her stuffed animals,” I said, finally calm. “That’s enough. We don’t need to take away more.”
“Are you going to say sorry for yelling at Layla?” he asked.
Layla stood near her bed, watching me, gauging me. “Yes,” I said, and turned towards her. “I’m sorry.”
I extended my arms and walked towards Layla, and she ran to me. As soon as she was in my arms her head was on my shoulder. I stroked her hair. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, I shouldn’t have done that.”
George stood and pulled on Layla’s foot. “Layla!” he said in a loud whisper, “say you’re sorry to Mama!”
“What?” Layla said, smiling down at George.
“Say you’re sorry to Mama!” George insisted, still loud-whispering.
“What?” Layla said again.
“Ugh!” George groaned, stomping his foot. “Say you’re sorry!”
“Saw-reee,” Layla said.
George laid back down and I covered him with his blanket. Layla laid down on her bed and I hugged her one more time. I said goodnight and closed the door.
At 3 and 4-years-old, bedtime lasts two hours, sometimes longer, and often requires me to climb into a bunk bed and lay with each kid for “just two minutes” which always turns into ten. When they are delirious and sleepy and finally laying down, George asks me to tickle his back and talk about tornadoes. Layla tells me to lay next to her, so we share her pillow, and she reaches over and plays with my hair.
I wonder, when they’re older, how my kids will remember bedtime.
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Happy Mothers’ Day!
Charlie
P.S. Speaking of Mothers’ Day, I received this treat in my inbox on Sunday. If you’re a mom of little ones, and you’ve been struggling to find space for yourself and your creativity,
created this 3-episode podcast series. I binged it yesterday during my multiple car rides throughout the day, and I loved it.
Omg you took me right back to the fucking witching hours. The number of times we put our little back together bed and then yelled at each other about whose turn it was to do bedtime.
BTW, You're doing a great job ❤️
You are not alone. You have inspired me to write about bedtime. I in fact muttered the words “i suck at bedtime” to Clayton this week. It’s me.. not them in this household.