Mom, Why Do You Stay Up So Late?

I remember being a kid and after being tucked in for the night, I would wait quietly until I knew for sure no one was around. I would then silently creep out of bed and position myself at the top of the stairs, trying to hear and see what amazingly interesting things my parents were doing in the living room. I was certain they were throwing parties or talking about how wonderful of a child I was--all very real things we parents do right?! Sometimes, my big brother, Sean would join me, and we would sit there, in complete and utter silence, feeling so rebellious for being "up" past bedtime. For many seasons, the night used to be my parents time to plop down on the couch, popcorn and peanut M & M's in hand; Dad in his pullout chair and Mom curled up in the corner of the sectional. They would usually watch ER or Lois and Clark, nothing whatsoever that childhood Ashley had any interest in watching--but there was something magical to ME about them being up 'super late.' Which back then, was probably 9 pm. 

I don't know what it is about the night, but there is something about it that I believe calls most moms [some dads?] Still to this day, my mom stays up WAY too late and I am often the one joking with her to go to bed! 

But after us kids were down, that was always when she had a chance to just breathe. Not 100% by any means, because she would wash a million loads of laundry AND fold them. She would do all the dishes and start the dishwasher. She would (still does) have her quiet time with the Lord and read her devotions. Once we were all in bed, nighttime was when she could sit, at least for a few minutes. 

As I write this, every single being in my household is sound asleep. The kids have been dozing peacefully in their beds for three hours, my husband is snoring, our cat Alfie is perched above my head on the couch, Manny is on my pillow, Sammy is on the chair across from me, and the dogs are on our bedroom floor. The heater is blowing warm air and the buzz of the fan is making me slightly sleepy, which is a plus because up until now I wasn't tired at all. 

My son Pierson has asked me for several years, "Mom, why don't you go to bed when Reese and I do? Why do you stay up so late?" (and HE thinks I stay up just until 10 pm!)  If I ever say during the day that I am tired he looks at me so seriously and says, "Then you shouldn't stay up so late, Mom."

Here it is, midnight, and I have a full work day ahead of me tomorrow. But if you're like me then you can relate to the gazillion things that are working themselves through your tired/not tired brain, and you get a crazy second wind the later it gets. There's a large part of me that dreams of being a morning person. Can anyone else relate to this? I wish so badly that when my alarm went off at 6:15 am for work, that I could actually get OUT OF BED at that time. Instead I hit snooze at least 300 times, and I am scrambling to jump up by 6:50, when I am supposed to be leaving twenty minutes later. Lord help me in the mornings. And my poor kids are permanently going to remember me as the parent who hates mornings. Nighttime though, I can DO that. I unfortunately am not as productive as my mother; washing, drying, and folding laundry, but sometimes it's nice just to sit in silence. To listen to the hum of the heater, to know that everyone around me is safe, warm, happy, and loved. 

There's another reason that staying up late is just destined to happen, and moms, I KNOW you can relate to this one. Eight o'clock rolls around, the kids are in their own beds, teeth are brushed, faces are washed, comfy clean pajamas are on. And then Reese especially needs 2,300 hugs. And when I am trying to leave her room, she yells, "Mom! Wave!! Mom, wave! Wave, Mom!!" So then I wave. To my daughter who is in bed, whom I have hugged 2,300 times. And she tells me that I didn't wave RIGHT. And then once I got the wave down pact, I close the door. And I hear her scream, "MOM!" I open the door. "Love you, Mom." "I love you, Reese," and I close the door. "MOM!" I hear. Oh my good Lord have mercy and help me not to completely lose my lid. "Reese, what! You have to stop." "Wave, Mom." 

From there I go to say goodnight to said son who wonders WHY I am up so late. At this point it's almost 8:30 pm (usually). He lifts his shirt for me to tickle his belly and I always climb in the bed next to him. We pray, I sing a song (It is Well EVERY single night), and tickle his belly. He'll either proceed to ask me a hundred questions, or I'll start to fall asleep, my fingers coming to a complete stop on the warmth of his tummy, startling back to life as he pokes me. "Mom, if you're tired, just go to bed.  You don't have to stay up late." 

Except I don't WANT to go to bed, Pierson Clive. I want a hot cup of tea, a scalding shower, to read a book, or write a blog post, or browse the Internet aimlessly, or take the dogs for the walk (yes, sometimes at 9 pm), cuddle with my husband, watch some TV shows, edit pictures, eat a snack, and the list goes ON my dear boy. I've been poked and prodded all day since 7 am. I've heard the name, "Mrs. Glass" at least 8, 742 times from my five and six-year old students. I've been hugged and sat on, high-fived, sometimes pushed or glared at, occasionally threatened and DEFINITELY have had my literal bubble popped at multiple points in the day. Most of those things are such a blessing, not at all bad and I am thankful for my roles. But I've been teacher for seven hours, mom for twenty-four, and sweet son of mine, sometimes I just need to BE. 

Here we are, much past ten o'clock, and my eyes are finally feeling heavy. And look at that! Blog post written, thoughts sorted, and sweet memories of my childhood relived. 

Becoming My Mother

"Mom, tickle my back," my three-year-old, Pierson, says to me as we snuggle under his covers. We just finished our typical routine; bath, a drink of water, lights off, another drink of water, prayers and now the tape player is on and we are here in the dark. He always used to be our excellent sleeper and then something happened in June when he turned three. He transformed into a brand new kid.  He has been trying to figure out what it means to be a step up in toddler-hood, what it is to really be big brother to his sister fifteen months younger than him, and how to seek independence, yet still rely on us, so greatly.

He has gone back and forth for months, between sleeping great but then needing either my husband or I (or both) several times a night. It wasn't too long ago that he screamed bloody murder as soon as we left his room. That was fairly close to us returning back to work after having had the entire summer off as a family, but that was a long season. As soon as we thought we were making progress with defining consequences and helping our three-year-old sleep again, it would plummet. There was never any predictability. It didn't seem to matter if he napped or didn't nap during the day, the times would differ that he woke in the middle of the night, and we were all just tired.

My mom listened to me vent about my exhaustion over the phone every single day. I call her daily on my way home from work. It's only about a ten minute drive, sometimes less, that I have time to catch her up and tell her what's been going on. "Ash, you always fell asleep listening to lullabies," she said. "I really feel like it would help him to listen to music. Then maybe you could just sit in his rocking chair a minute before leaving his room. That's what I always did with you kids.”

Soon after one of those talks with her, I had a small package waiting on my front porch. I brought it inside and gently opened it, smiling when I pulled out an old-school tape player with a dozen or so tapes from my childhood. That night, I showed Pierson the tape player and told him that I used to listen to these when I was his age to help me fall asleep. We prayed and then I explained that we would listen to a few songs. Then I would move to his rocking chair to just sit silently for a few minutes. 

I popped one of the lullaby soundtracks into the machine and closed my eyes. 

Within seconds it all came flooding back: my tiny childhood bedroom, the stark white furniture set, the little picture frame that held a photo of Jesus next to my bed. And then there she was.  She laid beside me curled into a ball each and every night. Her hand would run up and down my back, across my shoulders, through my hair and over my face, giving me 'sleepy-time glasses,' as I drifted into a peaceful sleep. Some nights it took me longer to fall asleep and I remember her wrist would slightly drop in the crook of my back, going still and limp... I knew she was falling asleep. I would lightly twitch or pretend like I needed to re-situate, praying, "Please don't be done yet. Just a minute longer." 

My eyes opened and I was back in Pierson's room. The only light visible was from the faint twinkle of his glow-in-the-dark stars above us. The woman singing this lullaby was one I had heard time and time again. I like your eyes. I like your nose. I like your mouth. I like your ears, your hands, your toes. Tears started to trickle down my cheek as I remembered, "This was the song that she sang to me every night." My hand paused slightly in the crook of his back and I felt his little body twitch. I almost laughed aloud as I wondered, Is this desire to have a back scratch genetic? I tickled his a second longer and then ran my fingers through his hair. While I switched to sleepy-time-glasses around his eyes, I breathed him in, smelling his freshly shampooed hair. My first-borne baby was not so much of a baby anymore, but on the cusp of full-on boyhood. Sigh. I turned the tape player off and silently moved from the bed to his rocking chair.

"Mom, sing just one song?" he asked.

"Okay, baby, I'll sing a song." Mine to him from the moment he was born was You Are My Sunshine and the words effortlessly escaped my lips. I closed my eyes and prayed for a few minutes in the dark. His fan humming, the glowing stars lessening their light. I slipped from the room and whispered, "I love you," closing the door. That was the night we were reminded of peaceful sleep. It hasn't been perfect and with winter illnesses especially it has been up and down, but for the most part, the magic of that tape player and the lyrics that sing from it, have proven to be a success. His night time routine is slightly longer these days but that added length brings so much added sweetness.

He is growing so quickly, changing each and every day. Many days I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness knowing that I won't have 'babies' for too much longer--but then I thank God for this phase that we are currently in. This phase of a few lullabies every single night, when I am given the chance to remember my own nights with my mother and I realize: I am becoming her. At some point in early adolescence this was a realization that kind of frightened me. But I think once we women are given our own children, and we are able to really and truly grasp how much we were loved--well, I hold tightly to what a blessing this inheritance has become.

Mommy Put Me Down

"Mommy put me down!!!" are the four words we hear in our household every.single.night. 

Our two and three year old have gotten accustomed to asking for me, each and every night. "I want MOMMY!" Reese will say. "It's Daddy's turn, Reesie," I gently respond. Her arms shoot up, giant tears well in her eyes as she reaches for me. Sometimes it's a little more smooth sailing and she is okay to give me a giant kiss with some crocodile tears. But lately, no.

Why? Is it because I am a really fun Mom and they think I just put them down better? Nope. Dad is the giant toy here. It is with him they crack up laughing as they Hulk smash each other, as soon as he walks in the door. It is Dad who makes us smile and helps us get out of our afternoon funks. Is it because I am super patient and selfless? I'm sorry to admit that it would be for this reason even less...I think I was a semi patient kid, but it started dwindling in my adolescent years and by the time I was an adult, it's like something snapped. Noise, chaos, incessant tapping, whistling...oh boy. I better stop admitting all this. But toddlers fighting? Shoving each other? Demanding which toys are whose and stomping their feet through it all? What patience? Another high five for Dad on this front. And if there is anything motherhood has taught me, it is how quickly I crave selfishness. I don't remember what it's like to pee alone. When I come home from work, my husband still has another two before he joins us. I get the kids a snack, a drink and I allow for a few minutes of TV or i-Pads so that I can change clothes and clean up. It takes all of three minutes for me to do this and the entire time I literally pray, "Please don't kill each other." Some days I can count down-- "5, 4, 3, 2...."

"MOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!" Pierson screams at an ungodly pitch. Reese screams back. Something knocks over. Feet scuffling on the hardwood floors. Silence. "Oh, CRAP, one of them is dead."

So it's not my selflessness they're attracted to. But it never fails. This phase of life is all about Mommy. Mommy put me down for nap, bedtime; Mommy to hold me when I'm upset, Mommy I run to for tattling. That doesn't mean they each get me every night. My husband and I are great about taking turns and Pierson may soon be on the verge of being completely okay with this. When I put down Reese, he does Pierson, and vice versa. But there's still the asking, on repeat. Usually before dinner starts, a few times during the meal, in the bath, and then the battle begins. All day long I've spent seven hours pouring into other children- attempting to teach them all the core subjects in school as well as how to love and respect one another. I get a mere four hours with my own and I will be 100% honest; when I walk in the door, my heart is often heavy, my feet are tired, my bra comes off and the last thing I feel prepared for is motherhood. But this hat comes first: Mommy. I may be exhausted, my brain might be a little (okay, a lot) frazzled, and some nights I have actually cringed at the high pitch cries of "Mommy put me down!"

But it's all becoming so real- the fact that they won't be toddlers forever. I know they will be able to do their bedtime routines themselves and after they do, they will be perfectly okay with a simple hug and kiss for the night. Their little bodies won't fit so perfectly nestled against mine, Reese won't beg for me to rock her a little longer, and Pierson won't need me to sit in his chair to sing "just ONE more song."

Most days I don't feel worthy. I'm insecure and I often doubt who I am, what I was created for. But then I hear their voice and Mommy Put Me Down assures me that I am doing the right thing.