My in-laws brought their RV when they came for Christmas. Eli is smitten with this vehicle that is part big rumbly truck, part efficient toy house, and part backyard adventure pup tent. There it is right in our driveway. Not only are the grandparents there, but it is also complete with a doorbell he can ring whenever the whim strikes, a flat screen television that seems to run a continuous loop of PBS cartoons, and a griddle that serves up hot banana pancakes. What’s not to love? As the afternoon darkened each day, the campaigning began. “Mama, can I sleep there again tonight?” All the adults looked at each other, shrugged, and politely said, “It’s up to you….”
For three nights in a row, Brian and I passed our boy out the door into the arms of his granddad. We closed down the garage door feeling a giddy sense of freedom. Woo hoo! We could watch a movie and turn up the volume! We could flip on any light we’d like! Indeed, we hollered loud I-love-yous to each other up the stairs simply because we could. Bedtime didn’t have to be prompt either. There was a sleep-in ahead! And we knew we could sleep without keeping an ear out for a cough, a cry, or shuffling of little feet down the hall.
But then bedtime eventually came. When we headed to bed ourselves, it felt odd not to tiptoe in to re-tuck Little Guy’s covers. There was no tandem goodnight kiss on a slumbering boy’s head. As grateful as we were for a parenting break, I missed him. And I missed knowing he might leave his own bed and show up at ours sometime in the night.
Several times a month Eli will pad into our bedroom in the dark. If a lighter sleep cycle coincides with a tangled dream or he finds himself uncovered and chilly, he’ll seek out company. I open my eyes to find the silhouette of a little head next to me. If he doesn’t seem upset, we usually don’t even say a word. Despite the fact that it is against what I said I would do before I became a parent, I just lean back and lift the covers, giving Eli a tunnel. Grabbing two handfuls of fitted sheet to help him climb, he scoots in.
I’ve always loved hugging and rocking Eli. But rising out of sleep, taking him in my arms, and sinking back down into sleep is a whole other kind of mama bliss. Warm, sweet, soft little guy. He smells good. He smells familiar in a way that tiger cubs must smell just right to their own mama. The sound of his snuffling near my ear. Small hands and arms wrapped around mine. I feel him sigh. The readjusting and wiggling slows. His breathing becomes even. He’s asleep and soon I will be too. Drift. In the daylight hours I am often called on to problem-solve, to be a good provider and fixer and explainer. In the peaceful wee hours, I just have to be. I am warm. I am soft. I provide company and safety simply because I’m his mama. Mutual gratitude becomes a nest. We connect in a different way.
Yes, I know I may wake up an hour later to find I only have a six-inch ribbon of mattress left to sleep on, my child splayed like a starfish beside me. I may be used as an ottoman for little feet during the night. I may get accidentally head-butted or kicked. Because of all of this, I may even feel like a 40 watt bulb in an 100 watt socket the next day, dulled by sleep debt. But the peace of drifting off with my child in the dark is worth it. Even if I'm more tired, there's a part of me that is actually stronger and rejuvinated in the morning. The open response to his need weaves together trust and love. Somehow that is even more true in those quiet hours when words aren't needed. He’s growing up and these night visits won’t happen much longer. They don't happen more often than I can handle, so I let them weave their sleepy webs whenever the opportunity comes. When Grandma says no to an RV stay on the fourth night, I don’t mind an end to the respite.
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