This essay was originally published in Motherscope Magazine
Every night Violet’s dad puts her to bed. The elaborate routine morphs as days, weeks, months, and years pass by. Read books with the lights on. Books with the lights off. Arm tickle. Other arm tickle. Two arm tickle. Belly tickle. Ribs.
This year at preschool, Violet is one of the “Big Girls.” A fresh four-year old, Violet’s demands drive us both to sigh and rush her, even though we know better.
Once a squirming six-pound worm, more critter than human, Violet is a mini version of us and everyone we’ve ever known, a “32-pounder” with expectations, opinions, and vise grip hugs. Violet explodes with joy, anger, frustration, one right after the other, all at once. I envy her bursting giggles.
Violet’s first bed was a Pack ‘n Play in our room in an upstairs apartment. Nurses insisted the swaddle was essential, said it would comfort our daughter to be wrapped up tight. Grunting and growling, as if possessed, Violet fought her swaddle until we took it away.
Each night Violet’s dad and I rushed in slow motion, stumbling out of bed feeling closer to death than ourselves. Violet’s cry was an alarm. We sat like zombies as our new daughter chugged, a tiny creature swimming in bliss while her dad and I struggled to stop our eyes falling shut. When Violet fell asleep, baby drunk, she stayed connected to me by a milky, drool-sticky thread.
Nurses, classes, books, and friends said, “Keep her in your room for at least six months. A year is better.” For two weeks we tried. Through grunting, rolling, and Violet slamming into the sides, the Pack ‘n Play insert wobbled and swung. Violet thrashed, celebrating her freedom from the swaddle, demanding more. Great Grandma Marilyn insisted we move Violet to her own room. Straightforward, retired nurse, Marilyn.
Violet’s daddy lifted her up every night, breaking that milky thread to set her tiny body against his own. She twiddled her fingers in his chest hair as the two of them moved like molten lava oozing down the hallway towards her room. Kenny crept and I held my breath. Most nights, I’d hear a gurgle a few steps away, a wet burp. Regurgitated breast milk cascaded down Kenny’s back, coating his tattoos in greasy cream.
Our pediatrician insisted I stop breastfeeding Violet to sleep. Bad habit. Sugary teeth. Sleep training. Great Grandma Marilyn agreed. “She can smell you. Go for a walk and she’ll sleep. Her dad can handle it.” Phil Collins took over, singing Violet to sleep - One More Night on repeat on Daddy’s shoulder.
Violet started waking up again and again in the night. Her doctor said, “Put her to bed awake.” And so, began Daddy and Violet’s epic bedtime routine. He eases her into drowsiness as she pushes back. Eavesdropping through the monitor, a sound so sweet it hurts my heart.
I hear Kenny’s patience rise and fall. Stall tactics stretch him. Sometimes she’s too much like me. For twelve years Kenny has loved me. For twelve years I have taken too long getting to the table for dinner. Hoping I will sit down on the couch to watch a movie and stay there is his impossible dream. I forget my chap stick. My lotion. Can’t find my phone. Need ice water. I ask for more foot rub. More arch.
“One more minute rib tickle, Daddy!” Violet says. “Just a little more arm tickle and one more book!” She is a small me.
Violet has her bedtime books memorized. She insists on reading every other page herself. Stuttering, she tries to hold onto Daddy as long as possible, “G-G-Go Dogs, G-G-G-G-O.” She’s very clever, as 89-year-old Marilyn says, “Very good. Very clever.”
Violet’s bedtime routine is a marathon. Brush teeth. Smile. Tongue. “Boop” toothbrush to tiny nose. Potty. Wash Hands. Brush hair. Mama hug on the couch. Running Hug.
“Ready, Set, Go! Can’t catch me! Don’t tickle me!” Violet squeals as she runs towards the rainbow that shoots across her room. Daddy painted slats of wood that fit together like a puzzle. 120 nails secure it to studs hidden within Violet’s bedroom wall. Reflected in her mirrored closet doors, a double rainbow wraps around our colorful flower of a daughter.
Daddy gives her more arm tickle every time. Always one more book: Fox in Socks. Hop on Pop. The Foot Book. Your Personal Penguin…
Every night for three years, Violet’s dad has read her the same last book before “final huggy.” Native Northwest totems in the backdrop of night. Together, Daddy and and Violet say goodnight to the sun, the butterflies, birds, frogs, bugs, sea creatures, turtles, fish, whales, bears, beavers, and owls.
As wolves, their voices fill our home. “Do good resting!” their howls say, to each other and to the night.
Goodnight World