The Bedtime Negotiations

POV - Ben

I love having a bath! It’s great! It has bubbles! And it’s warm water. And I can splash Daddy. His shirt gets dark purple where I splash. I always laugh a lot. Today I laugh, too.

I don’t like when the bath finishes, but Daddy brought rocket pajamas. I like them, they are soft. So I help him put the pajamas on me and we go to my bedroom. Mummy waits in my bed. And she holds the book with the little kangaroo! Yay! Book time!

I climb up (I’m getting really good at this) and sit very close to her. It is warm. I put my head on her belly, so I can see the book.

The little kangaroo doesn’t like the bath. But then his mummy gives him bubbles. And then he loves it! Same as me!

*Yawn!*

Weird. My mouth opens by itself.

Mummy is reading. She is stroking my hair. It is nice, and warm and I like it.

The little kangaroo has his bath.

My mouth opens again.

Mummy closes the book. “OK, baby, time to sleep,” she says. “You’re very tired.”

Oh no! I don’t want her to stop! “I’m not tired!” I say.

“You’re not? Come here, lie down,” Mummy says and moves away.

My head falls on the pillow. It is not warm. And it doesn’t smell like roses. I do not like it. And I am not tired. I stand up. I jump. Bounce, bounce. The bed makes funny sounds. I giggle.

“I’m NOT tired!”

I am right. But Mummy stands up. She steps away. She is far from me. Oh-oh. She says, “Lie down.” She doesn’t smile.

Fine. “But don’t go!” I say.

“I’ll stay with you a bit more, let me just dim the lights.” She reaches for the lamp.

“No! No dark!” I say.

“Okay, we’ll keep some on,” she says. She turns off the big light. But my turtle lamp is on. She goes to the door.

“Don’t go!” I say.

“I am not going, I am just closing the door. The light and the sounds are distracting.”

I don’t know what she means. “Don’t close it!” I say.

She leaves it a bit open. She sits in the chair next to my bed and starts stroking my head again. But she is still far. The pillow is cold. It doesn’t smell right. “Water.” I say. Mummy stands up.

“We go together!” I say.

“I’m not going anywhere, water is here,” she says and gives me my bottle. She is standing right next to me. I drink slow. I finish. She takes the bottle.

“Now, lie down,” she says.

I do. She sits on the chair. She strokes my hair. The pillow is cold. I sit up.

“Milk!” I say. She calls Daddy. Daddy brings warm milk. It is sweet. I drink slow. Even slower than the water. She is just next to me. It is nice. I finish. She takes the cup.

“OK. Now, lie down,” she says.

I do. She sits on the chair. She strokes my hair. The pillow is still cold. I sit up.

“Clean nose,” I say. Mummy gives me a tissue. I blow. Nothing comes.

“Now, lie down,” she says.

I do. She sits on the chair. I sit up.

“Mummy, I need to tell you something!” I say. She waits. I try to remember. There is something... about the park? The dinosaur? The thing Daddy said? “I forgot.”

Mummy says, “Tell me tomorrow. Come on, lie down, like this.”

She lays my head on the pillow. And she lies down next to me. She strokes my hair. It is nice.

“I’m not tired,” I whisper.

“Mhm,” Mummy says. She starts humming.

It is warm again. And it smells of roses. Just as it should at night.

I watch her face. She closes her eyes.

She stops humming. I put my hand on her cheek.

She is here. I close my eyes.

POV - Tina

7:00 PM. Dean and Ben are in the bathroom. I can hear splashing and shrieking and laughing. Happy sounds. I set up the bedroom: pull back the covers, find Ben’s recent favourite: the little kangaroo book, put the turtle lamp is on.

Small rituals. They matter.

I sit on the bed and wait. Enjoying a moment of doing nothing. Enjoying the faint scent of rose water and my body balm.

Ben storms in in his rocket pajamas and climbs up onto the bed and tucks himself against me, head on my belly. Warm little body. The weight of him.

I open the book.

I stroke Ben's hair while I read. His hair is smooth, still a bit wet. The familiar shape of his head under my fingers. I know this shape better than anything in the world.

He yawns. A big one. Then another.

Good. Maybe tonight will be quick.

I close the book. “OK, baby, time to sleep. You're very tired.”

“I'm not tired!” he says.

Of course not. Nobody's ever tired. Not once in the history of toddlers has anyone ever been tired.

“You're not? Come here, lie down,” I say, and I move toward the pillow to settle him in.

He stands up and starts jumping. The bed creaks under him and he giggles, delighted with himself.

“I'm NOT tired!”

I watch him jump and think: how did our species survive? Seriously. Tigers around. Wolves. And here's a small human, bouncing around, announcing to every predator within earshot: WE ARE HERE. COME AND GET US.

“Lie down,” I say.

He looks at me and stops. Flops down. Small victory.

“But don't go!” he says.

“I'll stay with you a bit more, let me just dim the lights.” I reach for the lamp.

“No! No dark!”

Right. The dark. I turn off the big light but leave the turtle lamp on. Its soft green glow fills the room. It's enough. It has to be enough.

I hear the dishes clinking from the kitchen. Dave is cleaning after the dinner. I move toward the door—not to leave, just to close it a bit, reduce the noise and light from the hallway.

“Don’t go,” Ben says.

“I am not going, I am just closing the door. The light and the sounds are distracting.”

“Don’t close it!” he says.

He looks at me with those eyes—wide, uncertain—and I know he doesn't understand what "distracting" means. He understands that I'm moving away from him. That's what registers.

I leave the door open a crack. Some hallway light falls across the floor. I sit in the chair next to his bed—close enough to touch—and start stroking his hair.

It's better. I can feel him settle slightly. But only slightly.

“Water,” he says.

He's sitting up already.

“We go together!” he says, as if we're going on an expedition.

“I'm not going anywhere. The water is here.” I hand him his bottle.

He drinks slowly. Very slowly. I watch him take tiny sips, his eyes on me over the rim of the bottle.

He finishes. I take the bottle.

“Now, lie down,” I say.

He does. I sit back in the chair. Stroke his hair. His eyes flutter. Almost there—

He sits up.

“Milk!” he says.

I call for Dean. A minute later, footsteps in the hallway, and he appears with warm milk in Ben's special cup. I mouth “thank you” and he nods and disappears again. Clinking in the kitchen resumes.

Ben drinks the milk even slower than the water. Tiny sips. He holds the cup with both hands and looks almost peaceful.

Almost.

I take the cup. “Now, lie down,” I say.

He does. Chair. Hair. The rhythm of it.

He sits up.

“Clean nose,” he says.

I hand him a tissue. He blows with great seriousness. Nothing comes out. Not a single molecule of anything.

“Now, lie down,” I say.

He does. I sit. I stroke.

He sits up.

“Mummy, I need to tell you something!” he says, and his face is serious.

I wait.

He thinks. His little forehead creases. He's trying—I can see him reaching for something, turning it over, searching.

“I forgot,” he says.

“Tell me tomorrow,” I say. “Come on, lie down, like this.”

I reach over and lay his head on the pillow. Then I lie down next to him. In his bed. With my shoes still on, because I need to leave the moment he falls asleep. There’s a stack of bills to pay on my desk and I want to sort them out tonight.

But the chair was supposed to be the plan. I read about it—the sleep ladder method, they call it. You start close, then move a little further away each night. Tonight the chair next to the bed. Tomorrow the chair a bit further. In three nights, the chair by the door. In a week, no chair at all.

A lovely, clean plan. On paper.

In reality, I'm lying in his bed at 8:30 PM in my jeans because I don't have the energy to sit in a chair and wait for his sleep to happen.

Tomorrow. The chair again tomorrow. We'll try again.

I stroke his hair.

“I'm not tired,” he whispers.

“Mhm,” I say. I start humming one of his lullabies. Too tired to sing.

His eyes are on my face. I keep humming, keep stroking his hair, and feel my own eyelids getting heavy.

I should stay awake. I should wait until he's asleep, then slip out of the room, be a functioning adult for an hour or two before my own bedtime.

But I can't.

My humming slows. Stops.

I feel his hand—small, warm—land on my cheek. Gentle. Curious. Mirroring.

I want to open my eyes and look at him, but I can't. Everything is heavy and warm and quiet and he's right here, his hand on my face, and—

I sleep.

When I wake, it's dark. The turtle lamp is off. There's a blanket over both of us that wasn't there before—Dean must have come in, covered us, turned off the light. Said nothing. Just let us be.

Ben is curled against me, asleep, his hand still on my cheek.

I'm still in my clothes. Still in his bed. The clock on his nightstand says 11:47. I feel better after the nap. I'll do my bills now.

I look at his face for a long time. Peaceful. The face of someone who is not worried about tigers or wolves or anything at all. Completely, utterly peaceful.

Inspired by

Book: Solve Your Child's Sleep Problems by Dr. Richard Ferber

For toddlers, falling asleep is hard—being left alone feels scary, and letting go of consciousness is a big ask for someone who's only been alive for two or three years.

Dr. Ferber writes a lot about sleep associations—the conditions under which a child learns to fall asleep. But even if a kid associates their parent’s presence with falling asleep, it may be ok. If it works for both of you, and nobody's waking up at 3 AM in need to recreate the evening conditions, and neither of you minds—there's no problem to solve, contrary to what some well-meaning people might tell you.

“Does he sleep on his own?” is one of the most asked question around families, including by grandmas who’ll advise you: “if not, you need to do something about it. Let him cry it out and he'll learn.”

I am not a fan of this approach. If there’s an issue with the family sleep, there are gentle ways to change it—like Tina's chair method. But if everyone is getting enough sleep and happy about the arrangement—just move on.

Ah, and about jumping… When toddlers get overtired, their bodies release stress hormones that create a "second wind." The jumping and protesting are signs the toddlers are PAST tired. But it's a topic for another time.

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I'm curious what you think of the story and what was the craziest request of your toddler at bedtime. Let me know in the comments.

(Photo by kian zhang on Unsplash)