Sometimes bedtime goes well.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
Last night was the first night in my memory that I had to shut the bedroom door and let my child cry. I didn’t do it when either of them were babies. “Cry It Out” wasn’t a method I employed at my house. “Mom’s Our Bitch” was more our style.
Quite frankly, it’s always been the three of us - since their dad left long before B’s 2nd birthday & J’s birth. We’ve always been a team. Any man that came along had to be secure enough to know he wasn’t immediately part of the family. He wasn’t immediately to live here, be accepted as one of us, but he wasn’t to be shunned as an outsider. It’s a delicate balance I’m not sure I can accomplish.
Anyway. Back to bedtime.
If I’m going to live an adult life, I need to be their mother more often; I need to be their teammate less often. This hurts like you would never believe. But it’s a necessary step, I think, starting now. Otherwise, where will we be in five years? Ten? Oh, dear.
I used to be a worrier. Now I’m a thinker. A planner. I need help carrying out my grand (and not-so-grand) schemes, but I don’t worry nearly as much as I make a plan to have a fighting chance of survival. At least, in my head & on paper.
So, back to bedtime - again. I stood up for myself. I said, “You are NOT to scream at me like that. I am not big enough to lift you into the top bunk. Get up there. NOW. It is time for bed.” Or something to that effect, you know. With some struggle, B got into bed. He cried and was very angry with me.
But that boy? He went to bed.
And this morning, we are up early together, eating breakfast & talking about it. “Mommy, I’m sorry I made you sad when I yelled. Are you sorry you made me mad and sad?” This kid, I tell ya.
“Yes, I’m very sorry. I try very hard for us not to go bed angry, but you know what? Sometimes we need extra time to cool off.”
“You know what, Mom? I had a dream we lived on a farm…”
And so it goes.
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