The door to Michael’s budding imagination has just recently opened wide enough to admit a few monsters.
I really don’t know exactly how they manage to creep into nearly every child’s life, but they usually seem to manage it around this age, and it is clear that Michael has not been spared their company. He’s let us know several nights this week and last that there are monsters around, particularly in his room at night.
And so putting Michael to bed has transformed from the predictable event with which I have been satisfied, into an adventure.
What I had known was a little boy who’d obligingly and happily snuggle up with his blankets after reading a couple of stories and sharing a bedtime prayer, and who’d then stay in his room without fuss until he fell asleep. Most of the time he’d have to soothe himself to sleep by banging around with one of the two hundred seventeen toys he keeps in his bed, the most recent addition being his “Spinny Horse”, one of those stick horses little kids like.
It was so nice: I put him to bed, he stays there. No problem.
Now, however, he gets up and comes out of his room. First he knocks on the door. If no one hears him, he opens the door and heads to wherever the action is.
Then I’ll scoop him up and drop him back in bed, along with a stern warning.
Sometimes, this is enough. But as the days passed, it has not been.
It would take two, three, four times of putting him back in his room. Sometimes his mom would get involved, and once he gloms onto her, it’s all over. He could be up for hours, draining her last milliliter of patience. One night fairly recently he ended up in our bed, a complete reversal of the natural order of progression in nighttime behavior. I was not pleased… but that episode did resolve with him sleeping in his own bed. Or at least not in ours. Anyway, it worked out.
And then, the night before last he went to bed and didn’t get up. I was encouraged! Maybe we’ve fixed the problem, and we can settle back into The Way Things Should Be.
But last night, it was more struggle. After putting him to bed, and issuing the stern warning that if he got out of bed I would throw away the fireworks (he knows we’re planning on shooting some off for New Years’ – more on that later), he told me he understood and settled down into bed.
Satisfied, I left.
We went downstairs to watch “Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader.” Sometimes, I am. I was proud of myself for spotting the adverb in the sentence given. I remember adverbs: “An adverb is a word… that modifies a verb… or modifies an adjective, or else another adverb, and so you see that’s they’re positively very, very necessary…” Ah yes. SchoolHouse Rock.
Anyway…
Pretty soon I could hear him crying upstairs. I ran upstairs to ask what the problem was. He said he had to pee. So we trundled off to the bathroom, where he performed said function.
Night-night, Michael.
Ten minutes later, more crying.
This time, he had to poo. Off to the bathroom. No luck. Back to bed. Night-night, Michael.
Ten minutes later, more crying.
This time, no specific problem, just wanted mommy.
“No, Michael. It’s night-night time. You need to be a big boy and go to sleep. There are no monsters. God has His angels here keeping you safe, and they absolutely will not let any monsters come into your room and get you. We’re all here, this is your room, you are safe and you need to go to sleep. Do you understand?”
He nodded and curled up with his blankies.
At this point my wife and stepdaughter had decided it was late enough, so they came upstairs to head to bed.
So I set off to execute my evening ablutions, but in the midst of brushing my teeth was informed by my stepdaughter that “Michael is knocking on his door.”
My wife and I went in there. He said he’d peed his bed. No, he didn’t. He said he was wet. No, he wasn’t. He said he had to poo. Okay, off to the bathroom. Still no luck.
I could see where this was going. I headed back to our bedroom.
Soon, my wife came in, with that slump-shouldered look of frustration blended evenly with exhaustion, but topped generously with motherly concern.
“He’s scared. He said there’re monsters in his room. He doesn’t want to be alone. I remember what it was like to be his age and I don’t think it’s fair to tell him to just get over it. I don’t know what to do.”
“Let’s implement the technique we saw on The SuperNanny,” I suggested. She agreed, and went back into his room. I followed.
She put him to bed, kissed him night-night, then sat down on the floor in the center of his room, with her face turned down, so he could see her profile. She said nothing, and didn’t move.
I shut the door, and went back to our room to wait.
Michael was puzzled, but not upset. Why was mommy just sitting there? Was she okay? He got out of bed to go check on her.
Wordlessly, she put him back to bed, and returned to her spot.
A little more time passed before he got out of bed and went to her.
Again, she put him back in his bed without a sound.
This continued a few more times. Then she moved to his doorway and sat down.
Again, she put him back to bed when he got up.
Eventually, she made it all the way to the hall in front of his door, and shut the door most of the way.
When he got out of bed, she’d quickly and quietly put him back, without making eye contact.
I had come out of our room and sat on the stairs, not too far away from the action. This was my way of showing solidarity. That, and I feel guilty lying in bed while she’s up and doing all the effort.
After a bed-putting, instead of sitting down she came to me and whispered: “How long do we keep this up?”
“Until he’s asleep,” I whispered back. I could tell that was not the answer she wanted.
“Okay,” she said.
“I’ll take over for you if you want,” I offered.
“Okay,” she said, and got up and went to bed.
Allrighty then, I thought.
So I took over the hallway duty, remaining motionless and silent as I listened and watched from the corner of my eye, as Michael wrestled around pawing at this and that, tossing one toy after another, crawling all around his bed, doing everything except get comfy and settled.
When he climbed up onto the window sill behind the curtains and stood facing the neighbor’s house, I took action.
Silently, I took him off the window and placed him in his bed.
His wide-eyed expression was unmistakable: “When did you take over?”
I returned to my spot.
He didn’t move.
After a couple of minutes, he rolled over on his side and cuddled up in a blanket.
I heard my wife call me in a whisper. I dared not answer back at this point, not while he’s drifting off.
I waited two more minutes, and then very carefully rolled over onto my knees.
Every squeaky floorboard in our house simultaneously announced my change in position.
Leaving his bedroom door ajar, I crawled into our bedroom on hands and knees, trying desperately to avoid making any more noise.
We turned on the baby monitor to listen for the telltale sounds of a sleeping toddler. Once I knew for certain he was snoozing, I waited two minutes more and then returned to shut his door.
It is amazing to me just how loud even the most innocuous objects can be when you’re making an effort to be quiet.
Quietly shutting the door to a freshly sleeping toddler’s room is a highly skilled process. First you must grip the knob firmly so as to avoid a rattle, turn it to pull the bolt back and avoid the conclusive CLONK that would otherwise result, and then you must very slowly pull the door closed to avoid a loud bump as door meets jamb. This took eons, as the darkness made it very difficult to know exactly how far one was from the other.
Once the door was closed, the next task is to slowly release the knob in an effort to control its return and thus stifle the noise. I had no idea there were so many springs, gears, sprockets and rusty joints inside a doorknob, but every one of them made a jolly clamor as I slowly let the knob turn back. Even so, the latch bolt caught on the striker plate just enough to allow for a nice, loud CLACK.
Fortunately, he didn’t wake up. He stayed asleep the rest of the night.
So did we.
I’ll probably have first watch tonight though. At least tomorrow’s Saturday.
