Pantene Pro Me

I am willing to bet that the bedtime routine in my home is similar to bedtime routines in homes-of-toddlers across the country:
A before-bath-snack followed by a bath with tons of bubbles.
A book.
And, finally, bed.

Once my oldest turned three, the bed element of bedtime turned into a bit of a battle. What used to be a peaceful transition was now peppered with landmines in the form of requests. As my husband or I would make our way towards the door to (what, at the end of the day, we perceived as) freedom, our Big Z-man would inevitably demand another sip of milk or another hug or another back rub. Something, anything, to keep us in the room.

It was excruciating.
It was a battle.
It was anything but pleasant.

Our baby Z-girl arrived 18 days after Big Z's third birthday. The addition of a second child pushed me a bit too close to the edge for my liking. I became paralyzed with fear that I would not be able to give either child what they needed. That, if they had demands of me at the same time, all hell would break loose and I wouldn't be able to help them.

I cried constantly.
I hid on the couch.
I was frozen.

I also missed Big Z. Here I was, spending every day with him, and yet I had never felt further from my son. My heart ached for the time he and I used to share and I felt jealous of the relationships he was building with everyone else. I realized that in many ways, my way of coping with the arrival of another child was to split ranks and, most of the time (and because I am a nursing mother) someone else would have my Big Z while I loved up Little Z.

It wasn't working for me. I had to slow down.

One night, faced with yet another bedtime battle to come, I passed both children to my husband and retreated to a hot shower. By the time I got out, Big Z was in bed and calling for me. I put my freshly shampooed and sopping wet hair into a pony-tail, threw on pajamas, and went into Big Z's room to fulfill whatever demands he had. As I bent over to give him a hug (and to see how quickly I could battle through bedtime) I caught him smelling my hair.

He buried his face in it. It was so innocent. So intimate. It stopped me in my tracks.

I got up and into his bed, scooped him into my lap, and sang him a song. He wrapped his arms and legs around me and hugged me hard. He rested his head on my shoulder, reached behind me, and began to run his fingers through my hair as I sang. Instantly, my boy and I were together again and, with that one gesture, I was able to inject some breath into my life once more.

Now, bedtime is something I look forward to. My precocious non-stop 3 year old quiets, settles into my arms, and holds my ponytail as I sing to him.

It's something only we share and it is my most special time with him.

Don't get me wrong, the gears don't always cog smoothly. Why, only tonight, in the last 10 minutes, I have had to stop writing to investigate shrieking coming from his room. As I poked my head in his door to shush him, he informed me that puppy (his stuffed animal) was hitting him and that he (Big Z, not puppy) needs to make just a little bit more noise before bed. When asked if he could make the noise more quietly as not to wake his three month old sister sleeping soundly one door down he replied simply, sweetly: "No".

Ah, my independent little boy. Old enough to have an opinion, but not quite old enough not to be rocked by his mama.