Mastering the bedtime monsters
Though every parent is convinced that their offspring is the best that God ever thought up, there are times when this conviction is put to test. One such time, as every fairly new parent would attest, is bedtime.
Cyberspace is adrift with social networking sites and support groups to caress the fraught nerves of harried parents at the witching hour. There is also, literature available to empathise with the same, the most recent being an ingenuously titled book no doubt capturing the exact parental mood at this particular moment. The lyrical title, which many parents are, of course, familiar with — Go the F**k to Sleep.
Since in many ways this column serves the purpose of a confessional, let me not shirk the sizing up: most certainly I too have had my moments of moral weakness in the long and often arduous process of putting my five-year-old to bed. As has my long suffering husband, because our daughter tends to gravitate towards his soppy permissiveness when mommy turns evil monster at 8.30pm. But after giving in to her wiles for a bit (I have yet to see a daughter who cannot twist daddy around her little finger at the drop of a hat or rather, the glint of a tear) even he has his patience worn thin.
By 8.45pm on many nights, no amount of cajoling, baby talk or story telling has worked. Beaten, I am ashamed to say we resort to the fear factor. Earlier my baby would, for some reason, be wary of the term 'old man'. So we took to announcing his arrival most alarmingly at bedtime. But now, she has wisened up.
"The old man is coming," we warn, in our best fearful tone, throwing in a shiver or two for good measure.
Tariecka looks up, bright eyed and bushy tailed. "Shall we say hello?" she asks interestedly. This is getting into the war zone now. We manage not to lose control, but only just. Finally, the day's tiredness takes it toll, comes to our aid, and she is asleep. We are nervous wrecks. The next night the drama goes into the absurd: Having run through the entire bunch of scaries, from insects to old men, my little one, to our utter horror, asks matter of factly, "Who's coming next?"
Years later, immersed in the novelty of her own life, when our baby no longer has the time to chatter with us so insistently, we should possibly reminisce on this moment with great goodwill. But that moment, at present, seems a lifetime away.
In quieter, more introspective spaces, however, I do reflect on the myself of the future. A time when my baby will have lost that sweet innocence, that eagerness that defines her every query now. A time when each monster on the horizon might not be dismissed so lightly or greeted so cheerily. A time when she would know that covering her own face with a sheet (with the rest of her little body showing) and coming to scare us as a ghoul, would not mean she's invisible.
My own mother has recounted endlessly, much to my embarrassment growing up, how I used to hide behind the curtain asking to be found. Not realising at age three, that my toes sticking out from behind the drape gave me away. I wonder how soon I would become my mother, the time so frustrating now, rendered unreservedly precious in the hindsight of memory, shared moments treasured as children leave the nest to follow their lifepaths.
"Don't grow up too fast," I catch my husband whisper to a sleeping Tariecka. I know that he too reflects as I do, in unguarded moments. And I wonder if we should have the wisdom to let her fight her own battles when it comes to taking on the monsters of the real world. And I pray that she should have the courage to combat them in the same careless, confident way she does now, when she asks us so trustingly, each monster vanquished by unflappable good humour, "Who's coming next?"
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Though every parent is convinced that their offspring is the best that God ever thought up, there are times when this conviction is put to test. One such time, as every fairly new parent would attest, is bedtime.
Cyberspace is adrift with social networking sites and support groups to caress the fraught nerves of harried parents at the witching hour. There is also, literature available to empathise with the same, the most recent being an ingenuously titled book no doubt capturing the exact parental mood at this particular moment. The lyrical title, which many parents are, of course, familiar with — Go the F**k to Sleep.
Since in many ways this column serves the purpose of a confessional, let me not shirk the sizing up: most certainly I too have had my moments of moral weakness in the long and often arduous process of putting my five-year-old to bed. As has my long suffering husband, because our daughter tends to gravitate towards his soppy permissiveness when mommy turns evil monster at 8.30pm. But after giving in to her wiles for a bit (I have yet to see a daughter who cannot twist daddy around her little finger at the drop of a hat or rather, the glint of a tear) even he has his patience worn thin.
By 8.45pm on many nights, no amount of cajoling, baby talk or story telling has worked. Beaten, I am ashamed to say we resort to the fear factor. Earlier my baby would, for some reason, be wary of the term 'old man'. So we took to announcing his arrival most alarmingly at bedtime. But now, she has wisened up.
"The old man is coming," we warn, in our best fearful tone, throwing in a shiver or two for good measure.
Tariecka looks up, bright eyed and bushy tailed. "Shall we say hello?" she asks interestedly. This is getting into the war zone now. We manage not to lose control, but only just. Finally, the day's tiredness takes it toll, comes to our aid, and she is asleep. We are nervous wrecks. The next night the drama goes into the absurd: Having run through the entire bunch of scaries, from insects to old men, my little one, to our utter horror, asks matter of factly, "Who's coming next?"
Years later, immersed in the novelty of her own life, when our baby no longer has the time to chatter with us so insistently, we should possibly reminisce on this moment with great goodwill. But that moment, at present, seems a lifetime away.
In quieter, more introspective spaces, however, I do reflect on the myself of the future. A time when my baby will have lost that sweet innocence, that eagerness that defines her every query now. A time when each monster on the horizon might not be dismissed so lightly or greeted so cheerily. A time when she would know that covering her own face with a sheet (with the rest of her little body showing) and coming to scare us as a ghoul, would not mean she's invisible.
My own mother has recounted endlessly, much to my embarrassment growing up, how I used to hide behind the curtain asking to be found. Not realising at age three, that my toes sticking out from behind the drape gave me away. I wonder how soon I would become my mother, the time so frustrating now, rendered unreservedly precious in the hindsight of memory, shared moments treasured as children leave the nest to follow their lifepaths.
"Don't grow up too fast," I catch my husband whisper to a sleeping Tariecka. I know that he too reflects as I do, in unguarded moments. And I wonder if we should have the wisdom to let her fight her own battles when it comes to taking on the monsters of the real world. And I pray that she should have the courage to combat them in the same careless, confident way she does now, when she asks us so trustingly, each monster vanquished by unflappable good humour, "Who's coming next?"
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