Sleepy train

“Night night, Avery! It’s 8 p.m. and *yawn* I’m tired!” Please don’t keep me awake.”

“Okay, mama.” She tucks me in, patters off to her room, and then the bamming begins.

Avery’s bedtime has always been a nightmare. Last December I let go of my investment in her going to bed now for the sake of her going to bed at all. She stayed up for hours but at least I didn’t have to.

I struggle to bring up hard topics while they are still painfully unsolved but I hope this sleep issue is on it’s way to becoming past tense. There have been many chapters.

My husband commutes for days at a time; so when he is home I get to explain our bedtime routine, whatever the latest idea might be. “What is she doing in there?” he asked. “Rearranging furniture?”

Me: “Building furniture?”

My daughter and I have different priorities. Which is why the water in the half-bath adjacent to her room is turned off; and toilet paper, toothpaste, hand soap, scissors, and crayons are kept in locked cabinets. That’s right, those child safety locks are not only for cleaning products.

The next day, I asked: “Avery, what do you do during quiet time?”

“Just… nothing,” she said.

“I hear bamming. What are you doing in there?”

“I toss my baby in the air,” she said. “Sometimes I catch her; sometimes I don’t.”

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I have invested thousands of hours in getting Avery to sleep. As a baby she would wake every 45 minutes unless we were touching. As soon as I got off the mattress her eyes snapped open; so I went to bed with her every night at seven.

Nothing improved as she got older. When she was two she started silly love, an infuriating boondoggle to any adult agenda. As I tried to tuck her in, she would put her head down and pike her bottom into the air; or roll over and over so the blanket wouldn’t stay in place. It never ended well.

Over the next year we tried everything: bedtime routines, charts, rewards, consequences, and punishments. Nothing worked. I figured she couldn’t act out without an audience; so I would leave. She freaked out and freaked out some more. Every failed bedtime left me asking: Harder? Or softer?

For a while I resorted to locking her in her room, which she naturally hated. Twice she managed to lock me in there, and I resolved never to do it again. Instead, I got her to stay by threatening to take the next day’s episode. That tactic worked; but it often ended with her standing in the doorway and screaming.

What to do? Beyond the purpose of getting my child to sleep, I want bedtime to be straight-forward, peaceful, and dare I say enjoyable. It happens every day, for God’s sake. At the very least it shouldn’t be traumatic.

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Though I tried to pass the buck, Avery has never had a security blanket, favorite stuffy, or a pacifier to sleep with. She had me. I loved cosleeping for the first year. Now I would love to sleep together and hold her little foot sometimes, but I also dream of an evening hour to drink wine with my girlfriends.

Sound sleep is vital to a family’s health. Why does it have to be so hard? On one hand, a new parent is so tired and has little choice but to do whatever makes sense in the moment: Scoop that kid up, use the boobs, pull her into your bed. On the other hand, the big picture hand, you must find a way to ask more of your child. Hold the vision of her sleeping alone. Start leaning in that direction on day one.

If your baby falls asleep on the nipple, rock her to sleep in your arms instead. Work this idea until you can lay her down. Get that little bottom into a crib while still cradling her head in your hands. Perfect this dance while she is still small. If she insists on sleeping in full contact with your body, fine. But side-lie and inch her farther and farther away in those moments before she is asleep until she is only touching your pinky finger. Don’t do what I did and let her wrap herself around your neck and stay there. Once you give your child your body in sleep, she will never it let go.

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When Avery turned two I started getting four-hour stretches of sleep in a row, and right away I was talking crazy about a second baby. Then I got twins.

I spent the summer of 2020 with my parents in Anchorage waiting to give birth to a pair of baby boys and teaching big sister to sleep by herself. My mom did the lion’s share of the work, and before our due date Avery was falling asleep in her own little room.

When we got back home to our Southeast Alaska town things got hard again, but a big shift happened when I changed from thinking Avery is being deliberately disobedient to supposing that this lousy excuse for sanity is the best she can do.

One night, as she spun out in the living room for the umpteenth time, I picked her up to carry her to bed as she wailed, “I am the baby! I am only a baby!”

Ahhh. Maybe the ‘be a big girl’ messaging wasn’t what she needed. I finally realized that the bedtime power struggle is designed to keep mama on lock down. It’s a fancy form of separation anxiety. I feel so foolish not to have understood earlier. Sometimes a three-and-a-half year old needs to know she is still little.

Our cosleeping is a result of separation anxiety, and the separation anxiety is a result of our cosleeping. This new light called for a change in tactic. I started to wonder: What if, instead of separating at night, we could all be headed to the same place? Like riding through our dreams on a sleepy train…

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“Are you ready to ride?” I ask as we finish our books. “Where should we go tonight?”

“Antarctica!” she says. “Let’s visit the penguins!” Other popular destinations include under the ocean, outer space, California, and up north where the polar bears live.

“Sounds good. I’ll hop into my bed and meet you at the Imagination Station. Do you want to get on first and save us seats? Or should I do it?” I’m feeling encouraged. This is the first sleep solution that has worked longer than three nights.

“I’ll do it, mama. I’m sooo tired.”

We love working out the details of these train rides: Will dad already be riding when we get on? Friends from school? Grandma and Grandpa? The brothers? We think it’s funny if the babies get on first and save us seats. When this happens they have to crawl up an imaginary ramp all by themselves to get on the train, carrying tickets in their diapers.

“I don’t want to be late,” I say. “Here comes that shiny black engine number 58. It’s pulling all those passenger cars and a red caboose. It’s putting on the brakes to stop for us! See the sparks fly along the rails?”

I give her the colors , sounds, and smells of a train yard – an image of us all together – and she forgets to be afraid of our separation. “What will they serve for snacks tonight?” I ask.

“Milkshakes!” she says. “Strawberry, vanilla, or chocolate.”

“Chocolate for me, please. Put in the order and I’ll meet you at the station in a minute. I’ll be wearing a red parka.”

Before I go she touches my heart’s center with all five fingers. “Click click,” she says, and she twists her hand back and forth to connect our invisible strings.

“Thanks,” I say, doing the same thing to her. “That will help us find each other easily. Click click.” We got this idea from a childrens book: People who love each other have invisible strings running between their hearts; so no one is ever really alone.

“Can you feel my love?” I ask.

“Yes!” she says.

“What color is it?” I ask.

“Pink!” she says, snuggling down into the covers. She turns onto her left side and takes a few deep lion breath’s, and I know she is ready. I sing my way out of the room:

Here comes the train!

Chugaluging down the track;

Going, Chugaluga! Chugaluga!

Chugaluga! Chugaluga!

Chugaluga! Chugaluga!

Chooo! Chooo! Chooo!

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