Immediately my mind starts racing. Is he thirsty? Will he find and inhale the bag of Twizzlers I forgot to hide far in the back of the cabinet? What time is it? Is this another headache? It's his third one this week. Please don't let it be a headache. Here goes another night of sleep which means we'll have a cruddy morning and camp will be ruined. Can't he just go to sleep?
A creak lets me know he's at the door to our bedroom. I freeze and pretend to still be asleep. I hear him softly pad to my side of the bed. (Always and only my side of the bed.) I feel his breath on my face. Maybe if I don't open my eyes, he'll go back to bed.
"Mom," he yells as though I'm across the room.
I yell "what!" right back at him. And so begins at least an hour of constant affirmation and soothing. The same hour we spend together in the quiet of night a few times each week.
He's hungry. He's tired. He had a bad dream. He didn't have any dream. His head hurts. His legs hurt. He missed me. He misses school. He hates school. He loved camp. He hated camp. What should he wear to camp?
The string of questions and complaints don't mean much. It's just his way of engaging me, of capturing my attention, of having me cuddle him in my lap like the days when he was a couple feet shorter and twenty-some pounds lighter. He wants -- needs -- the input, especially when he wakes up in the pitch black of a humid summer night with his mind racing and can't quite figure out how to settle himself back into sleep.
I used to play Super Nanny and force him to get back in his bed. I'd march him right back up the stairs, brusquely guide him to the ladder of his loft bed, and promptly shut off the light, close the door, and return to slumber.
But one night I couldn't fall back asleep and I heard him up there, pacing, banging, and crying. The next morning his fingers were bloody and raw from where he'd chewed them. His blinds were ripped down from him trying "fix them," and his room looked like a tornado had hit it.
And so. Here we are. It's 1:13am and I'm sitting on the couch with a too-big kid in my lap. I'm rubbing his legs while he sips on a glass of water. He's recounting how a zombie wolf-bat tried to get into his window but he used a play-dough sword to fight it off. And then had a popsicle. But, no, it was NOT a dream.
Eventually his body relaxes and gets heavier. I take his hand and lead him to his room. As he's climbing into bed, I adjust his fan, collect the stuffed animals he needs to feel secure, and then tuck his sheet around him. I rub his back for a few minutes and then gently squeeze his shoulders. He's already starting to fade into sleep.
When I close his door and make my way back to my bed, I know tomorrow will likely herald the same ol' set of not-enough-rest meltdowns. Luckily, I am well-versed and ready to tackle that challenge. I remember that his losing one hour of sleep is so much better than spending the entire night in a fury of destruction. I tell myself that it could be so much worse.
I hear it way before I feel it.
Does your child struggle with falling or staying asleep? What strategies do you use to lull them back into bed -- to stay?
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