Before you go #5... sleep well

 

Dear Sam,

This week marked a momentous occasion in the Lueken house.  No one likely found it momentous but me, but nevertheless, it brought me back to memories of you.

On Tuesday night, your younger brother texted me (yes, this is how he communicates with me at night) with two simple words (my nightly summons).  “Come up.”  He meant, of course, that he wanted me to come tuck him in.  I’ve been tucking babies to sleep nearly every night for 19 years.  Bedtime is a grueling hour for parents of young children.  It’s an endless, exhausting exchange of kisses and prayers, requests for drinks of water and potty time and baths and stories and “can you lay by me?”s and “where’s my…”.  Later, it’s a litany of worries “will you pick me up, and don’t be late again,” “don’t let me forget my computer,” “can you review these spelling words?”.  Eventually, these evenings fade into the late night rumble of the garage and a slam of the door, a brief flash of light and a few thumps somewhere else in the house and eventually silence.

For years, I’ve had the memorized words of Robert Frost rolling through my mind every night as I trudge up the stairs:

          The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.

          But I have promises to keep

          And miles to go before I sleep

          And miles to go before I sleep

If I ever get a tattoo, the words “And miles to go before I sleep” will be in the running.  Just typing this—years removed from the worst of it—exhausts me.

You were always one of my best sleepers.  You notably left your 8^th birthday party right after cake and presents, with cousins everywhere and loud, laughing grown ups spilling out of the kitchen and into the living room with fresh beers and glasses of wine.  When I noticed your absence, I hurried upstairs to find you climbing under the covers. 

“Sam, it’s your birthday party—you can stay up a little later tonight,” I told you, smiling indulgently.

“No,” you said emphatically (you could be a very emphatic little boy).  “I’m tired and it’s bedtime.”  And you pulled your covers to your chin decisively.  I leaned down, kissed your sweaty curls and flipped off the light, heading back downstairs to make your excuses.  

Another time when you were much younger, I remember kneeling by the bathtub bathing your wild baby sister.  You padded in and asked me to come lay by you.  “Mommy, you way by me?” you asked.  I was exhausted (I was perpetually exhausted in those years) and said I would once the baby was sleeping.  I tiptoed back into your room much later to find you fast asleep.  I paused there for a moment, as the usual regrets came charging into the silence.  I keenly felt the inevitable sorrow that followed those hurried moments when the day finally receded and I hovered over you in the silence, wishing I had stolen a few moments for you, that I hadn’t pushed you aside so many times that you finally learned to put yourself to sleep. 

I know many people would call that night good riddance and rejoice to find her sleeping big boy all alone in his big boy bed.  I can’t say there wasn’t some relief mixed with that sorrow, but I best remember the sadness of knowing you were growing up and away while I was perpetually busy with another little one.  I don’t think you ever asked me to “way” by you again after that. 

The other night, I offered to snuggle up beside Clay in his bed.  I have more time in the evenings now that the rest of you are nearly grown.  When we aren’t racing off to ball games or late meetings, you all take care of your own nighttime routines.  You especially would never think to text me a summons, ask for a kiss or some reassurances about the following day. 

Clay was nestled in among his blankets and pillows, a fan whirring beside his bed, his Alexa burbling his preferred “creek sounds” sleep soundtrack.  I tried to snuggle in beside him on his twin bed, and he sort of grunted and twitched.  “It’s ok, mom,” he said.  “You don’t have to lay by me anymore.”  He is so big now.  Not as big as you but growing fast just the same.  I have time on my youngest child to notice the broadening of his shoulders, the thickening of the hair on his legs, the changes in his smell and his skin.  Did I notice these things with you?  I can’t remember.

And just like that, the years and years of nighttime gauntlet were over.  Almost 20 years of nighttime ritual have come to an end.  You all wash and dress yourselves now.  You get your own glasses of water.  You aren’t afraid to go to the bathroom alone.  Most of the time, you all stay up later than me anyway.  Next year, I won’t even be able to sneak a peek at your long body, so lanky and grown up under the covers. 

Before you go, sleep well.  Sleep hard.  Don’t be afraid to leave parties early if you are tired and it’s bedtime.  Recognize sleep for the gift, the joy, the blessing that it is.  And if you ever ask again, I promise I will find the time to ‘way’ by you.  Sleep well.  

Before you go #4.... Make me laugh

Dear Sam,

A few days ago, you and I sat at the kitchen table completing your first college application.  Your little brother sat next to us working on a project for school.  It was one of those moments as a mom, and these seem to come more often when one of you is a senior in high school, when I zoomed out and hovered above our heads, watching for a heartbeat.  Your curly head was turning alternately to the work I was completing on the laptop in front of me and your brother’s blond head bent over a drawing you were helping him with.  I was bouncing my attention between the two of you, but was struck for a minute at the rare snapshot in time where I sat sandwiched between my two boys, just the boys for once. 

It is rare for me to sit still like that.  I’m a multitasker to my core, even before motherhood and its infinite tactical demands engulfed every corner of our collective lives.  I know all the rage right now is for us to “be in the moment” and “stay present”, but I’m willing to bet those philosophers and pundits aren’t women with five children, a busy husband running his own business, and a demanding full time job of their own.  But I was, present, in this moment.  And it was lovely.

Clay needed help drawing a singer.  You grabbed your phone and pulled up an example and willingly started sketching.  I kept filling in forms.  Name, birthdate, address, date of graduation.  All the little facts and details moms keep in their hearts.  Had they asked time of birth, first word, favorite toy I could have rattled them off with equal alacrity.  Most of your life to this point is written in my heart, pounded in my brain, will never be erased.  The mundane and practical and the whimsical and beloved.  It’s all there.

At one point, I reached a field that had one long ago day created a bit of contention between us.  “Preferred name,” I asked you.  “Sammy?” I teased.

You dropped your chin and looked at me skeptically.  You stopped answering to “Sammy” sometime around fifth grade.  I knew the day would come and I didn’t fight it hard at the time.  But I noticed and I grieved a tiny bit.  I wonder if you know how many of these moments a mama holds in her heart over the years.  All the moments when you pull away and grow up.  All the moments when you inexorably declare, verbally and through your actions, that you won’t stay mine alone forever.

But this time, you made me laugh.  “Samitron,” you said and flashed your charming, slightly sheepish smile—the one where you know you’re funny and you’re waiting for me to laugh.  “I go by Samitron, now, Mom.”  This little joke delighted me so much.  I’ve retold it multiple times, maybe almost as much as our exchange after you got your orthodontic expander (a story for a later day, and one of my favorites). 

My mind, of course, flashed back to your brief interest in transformers (the cars that become fighting robots) and then whipped back to the present, to the sarcastic and hilarious almost-man before me.  I wonder if you realize how often I whirl between little Sammy and big Sam(itron).  Do you realize how often I look in those big blue eyes and see the mischievous and clever boy you once were?  It’s the mother’s blessing and curse.  This ability to time travel and simultaneously mourn and celebrate the impossibly rapid passage of time.

Sam, Sammy, Samitron—you are so funny.  Your humor and personality are quieter than most of the family, your jokes more subtle and maybe, I admit, a little bit more sophisticated.  This humor is such a gift to us, all the more precious for its very infrequence, the impeccable timing that makes us all pause in surprise, and then laugh heartily. 

Before you go, hold onto that humor.  Share it with the world.  Share it often with me—I enjoy almost nothing more than laughing with you and I think you are funnier than you realize.  It’s a gift that is best shared and will serve you well in your life, now, and in all the years to come.