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 8th 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.
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