Bedtime Story
It goes something like this…
Andrew puts on her pyjamas and reads her a story. (As much as a seven-month-old can be read to. She flips the board book over in her hands, and nibbles the thick corner of a page.) I start cleaning up from dinner and relish a few moments of solitude until I hear…
“She’s ready for you.” or “Coo-oo” (a call adopted from my parents that works well in a crowd or from the other side of the house).
I enter the dimly lit room and Lydia sees me, starts crawling towards me. This time as I stand at the edge of our low bed she holds onto my legs and pulls herself to standing (her latest trick). I pick her up.
“Thanks, my Love.” Andrew leaves the room and it’s just me and Lydia. My unspoken hope is that she’ll go down easily tonight. I sit on the bed and bring her to my breast, leaning against the wall. Maybe she’ll fall asleep feeding and I won’t have to stand up and rock her. That would be nice.
She’s working hard, hands clasping my breast like a cup. I think about how her little newborn fists used to be firmly clenched at the beginning of a feed and then slowly…slowly…release. Each time reliving the process of learning that there is enough. There will be enough. She’s relearning now. Her belly filling, her body remembering the reality of abundance.
Her eyes close, she loosens her grasp, and I can feel her small body relax. I lift her up and move her to my left side where she continues to drink deeply. I’m hopeful that I’ll be able to gently move her to her mat on the floor next to our bed and slip out of the room. And then — she pushes herself up, opens her sleepy eyes, makes a satisfied little noise, and looks with great interest at the light on the bedside table. A squeal. She’s found it…her second wind.
She pulls herself up by grabbing my bare skin and reaches for the brick wall behind me (one of her favourite things to touch, currently). My hopes of an easy transition to sleep fade away. I place her on the floor and go get her carrier. In a hug position I strap her to my front and start doing some deep squats, then dance with her, practicing the extent of my swing and waltz steps. At first she drops her head back and gazes up at me, open-mouthed. Then, eventually, her head heavies and rests against my chest. She falls asleep.
After a few minutes, once I feel confident that she is indeed sleeping, I unclip the carrier, kneel to the floor, and place her gingerly onto her little mat. Her eyes open momentarily, see my face, and then close again, as if with reassurance. “Ah good, she’s still there.” Then she rolls onto her side — ‘Stop rolling there,’ I think — and then keeps rolling. She rolls onto her stomach. Her head rests on the floor for a moment…and then — it pops up. Awake. She pushes herself onto her hands and knees, rocks back and forth, and then looks at me and squeals, as if quite pleased to see me again after an unusually short absence. I sigh inwardly.
Now I lie down next to her and close my eyes, channeling my most sleepy energy. Maybe she’ll get the idea. “Time for sleep, Lydia.” I rest my hand on her chest, a weighted blanket of sorts. I feel tired, too tired for this. Too tired to keep doing this, some version of this, every night, for who-knows-how-long. I doubt that I have the energy. Then I remember daily bread. Daily. Just enough for now. Not for tomorrow, or months or years or future children. It’s been a while, but in my mind I begin to recite Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread… I feel her breath on my face. In a moment she’s up on her hands and knees again, chattering and slap-slap-slapping my face, as if checking the integrity of her climbing structure.
Alright. I pick her up, swing her to the side, and lift my shirt. We assume our usual goodnight position, feeding and rocking. Rocking and feeding. She drifts off again. After I’m sure she’s asleep (and I’m never really sure), I kneel to the floor, and lay her on her bed. I kiss her head. This time, she doesn’t stir. And I pause there for a moment. Tired, yes. And trying to be grateful for not one but two opportunities to put her to bed tonight. What some grief-stricken parents would dream of.
Before I leave the room, I watch her lips move rhythmically with the memory of our bodies’ connecting point.
This — all of this — this is bedtime.
Afternote:
Twenty minutes later I hear her cry from down the hall. I hurry to the room and open the door to find her on her feet, trying to pull herself onto the bed. Looking for me where I’m normally found. I take her in my arms and nurse her to sleep.
