Bedtime Ritual

Mom lays her down in the crib, a sleepy-eyed Toddler who keeps shaking her head no -- she's not tired. Coaxed into compliance she settles dutifully into her blankets, clutching Big Bird. Mom turns out the lights and settles down in the chair next to her, staring at the clock.

7:47. Fifteen minutes and I might be out of here she thinks.

The routine is established. "Baa Baa Black Sheep" or "Twinkle, twinkle" must be sung at least five times if not more until the eyes begin to droop. Back rubbing is optional, it depends on the Toddler's mood. After a few minutes the singing must get softer and softer until it is barely a whisper. A whisper which, on her hoarser days, reminds Mom of something out of a horror movie. She finds it disturbing but the Toddler doesn't seem affected. And then we wait. This is where Mom's internal monologue always seems to take over.

Remember, don't look. Everytime I look at her, comforting, adoring, whatever, she stays awake. Must convince her Mom . . . gotta stop referring to myself in the third person dammit . . . I'm not available any more today. I'm not going to play, kiss, laugh or tickle. I am a comforting body, no more. Besides a watched kid never sleeps. Though a watched dog seems to do just fine. Crashed out in the dark doorway, oblivious to the world. 7:51. Why do I bother? Lately she never goes to sleep before 8:00 anyway. Like clockwork. This is my kid -- a mini cuckoo complete with small arms and a delicately carved face. Nap is one hour from when I leave the room, to the minute almost. Bedtime is 8:00. Doesn't matter if we start at 7:05 or 7:35.

I get so restless every night as I sit here. I used to think if I had to sing "Baa Baa Black Sheep" one more time I would scream, but now it's just rote. Like dishes, or brushing teeth. The Buddhist philosophy book I'm reading encourages staying in the moment, expereinceing life as it happens. But it's so hard when it's the same every night. The same viewpoint, the same observations to make. It's hard not to get lost in your own thoughts. Apparently I've still got a long way to go in moving toward stillness of the mind.

She is cute though, curled up on her side with that thatch of blonde covering her one eye. Her arm of purple fleece laying so gently across the blankets. Shit! I know better than to look at her! Now I can hear the arm flop. Once, twice, as she finds that comfortable place again. And the yawn. That sweet little exhale of breath. Like when I pick her up and the force of it creates a whoosh of air on my cheek as I settle her onto my hip. 7:56. Almost.

She is my life in moments like this. I can't escape it. There is nothing else to do, and I am trapped. Like the Sherman traps Mike uses to catch small mammals, it's not uncomfortable. It's roomy, secure, still. But too much stillness, too small, too much time staring at the same walls will drive you mad. Good question -- do the clinically insane stay insane forever, or does the manner in which we lock them up create a self-prepetuating cycle. Again, random morbid thoughts as I put my kid to bed. Great. 7:58.

And now I get to go back to my life outside. The husband I adore. The bank account that scares me and the shortness of breath that is my reality as the seasons change. Like surfacing from a dream, or a bad meditation session. I'm not sure which.