Friday, February 28, 2014

Nip the nap


I am currently enjoying "quiet time."

And in the vein of Linda Richman and her Holy Roman Empire being neither holy nor Roman, I am neither enjoying "quiet time" nor is it particularly quiet.

Alas.


June is playing by herself in the dining room as I attempt to force silent boundaries, during which I may get work done and June must keep her trap shut for 60 full minutes against all odds. She used to have quiet time in her bedroom in the hamfisted hope that she would succumb to her fatigue and lie down for a bit, but I bagged that when she would a) become disconsolate, b) stand at the top of the stairs and bellow, "Mom? Is quiet time over yet?" every two minutes, c) begin upending furniture and clearing bookshelves, or d) all of the above. I told her today that quiet time could be had downstairs, in my presence, on her own terms. This is what a desperate parent does in the wake (ba dum bum) of a child having long given up her nap. This is a last resort measure. Mine is the unwashed face of placation.

Alas again.

June has always been a pretty good sleeper. The product of both a lucky break and schedule-stickler parents, her rest has been consistent, uninterrupted and unprotested. She fell asleep and stayed asleep at night. She welcomed her midday siestas with aplomb. We had no grocery store meltdowns or face-plants in chicken fingers after a late-night bedtime. Sleep was pursued. Sleep was beloved. Sleep was a feather in my parenting cap.

And then she turned 3.

Somewhere in the electric, absorptive rivulets of her brain matter, so pulsing with new knowledge and the quest for it, she figured it out — "Wait a sec, I can control this. I don't have to be asleep right now. And you know what? Neither do they."

So she didn't. And we didn't. She'd wake in the middle of the night, as she had probably done hundreds of times before, but instead of giving her animals a gentle hump and then drifting back off to sleep, she got herself a wild hare and stayed awake. She'd call out for us, quiet at first and then crescendoing with a steadying rhythm and incantation that sounded like a heckler at a hockey game.

"Mama! Mama!... ma-MA! ma-MA! ma-MA!"

Of course, that first utterance of "mama" would jolt me awake like I had been doused with a bucket of cold water. Greg and I would find each other's gaze in our dark room and play a wordless game of rock-paper-scissors. Let's say, for the sake of exposition, I lost this game. I'd then hustle to her room bearing the concern all parents have when awoken to the sounds of their child's pleading calls, open the door, and find her...in bed, covers drawn, pretending to be asleep.

I felt my cool slipping from me like warm jell-o through a fork.

"Junie, what?"

(silence)

"Junie, what?? You woke us up, what is it?"

(silence)

"OK, I'm leaving now--"

"Wait! Mama, I need a drink of water."

I should mention now that June has been in a barricade-free twin bed for about eight months. Every evening we fill a water glass and leave it on her nightstand, approximately 10 inches from her face. We do not bind her wrists at night, nor do we boobytrap her access to refreshment. She has excellent fine motor skills and better-than-average eyesight. There is nothing, I tell you nothing, prohibiting her from accessing it herself.

And yet I stand there before her, the Mr. Carson to her Lord Grantham. I'd make some hyperbolic sort of "She'd ask me to wipe her ass if she could!" statement, but she's 3 and I really do assist in that department still. But point being, she doesn't need our help in the middle of the night. Instead she needs the sadistic thrill of watching her parents go slowly mad.

This is not like the pattern of frequent waking one encounters with a newborn, where the wee-hour wordless communion with a cooing, feeding baby is primal, beautiful, arresting experience.

This is some bullshit.

Now, I feel like I need to make an aside about what a great kid she is, how much happiness and joy she spreads in our lives, how often she makes us roar with laughter, what an angel she is most of the time. You all know how I feel about her, and how I feel is pride and delight that transcends obnoxiousness. But she's also normal, thank God, and normal kids bug the shit out of their folks occasionally. The other day she had grown weak from uncontrollable, source-less sobbing, slamming doors in my face as Tess tried to sleep in the adjoining room. I don't remember what her request was — a request I was obviously not heeding — when I calmly stated, "Junie, I don't negotiate with terrorists." She grew ever more incensed, threw one hand on her hip and wagged a finger from the other in my face, saying, "Yes you do! You DO negotiate with terrorists!"

But she was totally right. At 2 a.m. I'd make al Qaeda an omelette if it meant they'd let me sleep straight through to 7. My concessions to June's odd-hours demands were doing none of us any favors, but I just wanted to go back the frig to bed. There was begging, bribing, threatening, comforting, ignoring, crying (hers, not mine), sobbing (mine, not hers) and a whole host of other inconsistencies. Greg, of course, was deep in the shit alongside me, trading off in the good cop/bad cop pattern that characterized our nights. I threw the issue out on Facebook and got some ideas. I talked to my family. I got her pediatrician involved.

She suggested that whatever we do, we do it consistently and we make sure June knows we're pissed off. But while our anger should be palpable, we weren't to talk -- because talking would and does quickly escalate to yelling, and the drama is precisely what she's looking for in her bored wakefulness. And when she does go the night without a peep? Throw her a freaking ticker tape parade. She is to know that this is behavior to be applauded.

Yet (and I'm knocking on every wood and wood laminate surface I can reach from my desk) by the time I acquired this information, her hollering had abated. Whatever we did or told her worked. And this is the real b-word of the situation: I don't really remember what it was that got her to stop -- what threat or reward was dangled in her sweet, sleepy face to soothe her? I'd love to pass along some "been there, done that" words of wisdom to others, or put it on ice for when Tess decides she doesn't want to sleep anymore, but I can't -- that knowledge is gone.

Crap.

But who cares, because now she wakes up at a decent morning hour, runs into our room and says with delight, "Dad! Mom! No hollering!" We hug and kiss her, high-five her and tell her how proud we are. I throw some more questionable parenting bombs to secure additional nights like these, telling her we'll make brownies or go to "Old McDonald's" if she keeps it up.

I know this isn't the end of it, because at the very point I realize, "Hey, she's given it up for good!" she'll have her driver's license and I'll have discovered a whole new reason to not sleep.

Yet have I mentioned what a good kid she is?

As I typed this, a pudgy hand appeared from behind the dining room wall, extending in it a play bottle of ketchup from her pretend kitchen.

Me: "Junie, it's still quiet time."
Junie: "But I just wanted to give you a beer."

I accepted her "beer," hoping against all hope it was real, and sent her back to the dining room where she was to be quiet for the remaining 20 minutes.

It was the noisiest quiet, but thanks to the beer, I did wind up enjoying it.

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