I appreciated this blog post today at Momastery. Because I was feeling frustrated last night after I spent two hours putting Hugh to bed while envisioning all the other moms (I know I should include dads, but it was moms I was picturing) in the world quietly finishing their nighttime story, tucking in their little bumpkins with a pat-pat on the head and a kiss on the cheek and going off to have their time. To do whatever does not involve daytime work or parenting. In my case, it would have been watching Sunday night’s DVR-ed episode of The Killing followed by another chapter of Paris in Love. Or maybe just quietly staring at the wall. I couldn’t wait.
Instead, story time morphed into needing a night light, not needing a night light, having to go potty, forgetting to go potty. Having mommy leave the room and shut the door only to hear little feet over and over down the hall, down the stairs until finally everything escalted into giant sobs about how “sleeping is the hardest work ever.” At that point, I took a breath and told Hugh a story out of desperation, half made up, half remembered. I told him that every night after he thought his happy thoughts, the sandman would creep into his room and sprinkle him with fairy dust and give him nice dreams.
“Where the sandman?” he said sitting up.
“You can’t see him,” I said.
“He’s like the tooth fairy?”
“I need the tooth fairy because I’m missing a tooth!”
“You’re not missing a tooth. That must have been a dream. Lemme check. See? You have all your teeth.”
“I don’t! I don’t! I don’t have all of my teeth.”
And he ran away to the bathroom, turned on the light, pulled up his stool and peered into the mirror. “See. My toof is GONE.”
“Okay, then. Fine. It’s gone. Get back into bed.”
“So is the tooth fairy coming?”
At some point, we both fell asleep in his twin bed. When I woke up, it was 11pm. Tasha was still at work (Spoleto season). So I climbed back into my bed and fell asleep. Sandman=2, Mommy=0.