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Browsing Tag: bedtime

Damage Control

It was the night before school started, and I sat on the bottom of Saoirse’s bunk bed to give my nervous girls a pep talk. “Listen,” I said, “when you go to school tomorrow, make sure to keep a lookout for these two girls. Their names are Saoirse and Quinlan, and you’ll know them because everybody will know them. See, Saoirse and Quinlan are some of the smartest, kindest, bravest, nicest kids in the whole school. You’ll want to be friends with them because everybody is their friend. In fact, Saoirse and Quinlan are two of the friendliest girls you’ll ever meet. They’re smart and kind and good, so get to know them, okay? Just trust me. These girls? Saoirse and Quinlan? They’re going to be awesome.” I was looking at Quinlan’s face–her thumb in her mouth (an old habit that resurfaced this summer), eyes closed, a soft smile on her lips–and hadn’t noticed that Cian had come into the room until I heard his voice break into sobs behind me. “I wan’ to…

To Give Some Rest

Quinlan, like many four-year-olds, is afraid of the dark. Every night, she cries–and the cries, they are so loud–until I finally end up lying down beside her, after countless trips into her room to tell her, honest, it’s all okay. I lie there in my jeans, on top of her covers, running through my mental to-do list of what I still have to conquer before my own collapse into bed. My eyes burn after another long day of thisthisthis, and I wrap her in my arms, this sobbing child, shaking and shuddering, until she finally falls asleep on my shoulder, one hand on my chest, the other against her mouth. Her hair is a tangle of curls spread out over the both of us like sea foam on a stormy ocean, and I have to tenuously plan my escape, lest one of those knotted strands wrap itself in my earring or under my arm, waking her and starting the routine all over again. In my heart, I understand that this is just a normal part of childhood, and it will pass, but I hate that she’s frightened and wish…

Getting a Little Meta Up in Here

Want to hear something creepy? Sometimes, when Cian’s face is right beside mine, and I hear his little lungs working, I breathe in as he breathes out, so that I’m breathing the air that just left him. I know. Go get my straitjacket. I did it with all of my babies (I love how I say “all of my babies,” like I had a herd. Three is a lot. But three is not a herd). There’s just something so…I don’t know. Pure. Amazing. Miraculous. His breath is from the same lungs that were practicing this move a year ago, inside me.  He was once a part of me. I was once a part of him. And now he’s here, almost nine months later, growing because of me, or in spite of me, I don’t know, but regardless, he’s flourishing. And it’s awesome (I mean that in the awe-inspiring way, not the “dude, I just totally scored a coupon for a free pumpkin spice latte!” way) to witness. His bedtime feeding is my favorite part of the day…