My son, who is three, is incredibly difficult at bedtime. There’s a lot of cajoling, negotiating, laying down the law, and eventual crying and tantruming involved. At every step of the way I am pretty sure I’m doing everything wrong as a mother.
From the time my kids get out of the bath, to the time I can leave my son’s room, it takes about an hour. And during this entire hour my poor daughter, who is seven, is playing quietly in her own room, waiting patiently for her turn for bedtime.
Tonight, just as Jackson was about to calm down, Lily called from her bedroom across the hall, “Mommy? Did you forget about me? Where are you?”
Jackson sat up in bed, completely awake again and we had to start all over.
“Just a few more minutes,” I called back to Lily.
“Okay!” she shouted back.
Another story, another song, a little more snuggling, and finally Jackson said, “You can go see Lily now.” My little son, thinking of his sister just as he was drifting off to sleep.
And Lily fell right to sleep after a chapter of Charlotte’s Web.