This Could Be the Last Time You Get To Do This
How a Four-Year-Old Taught Me Not To Wish Time Away
Dad, I’m scared, and I can’t sleep. I want you to lay with me.
How many of us roll our eyes when we hear this? I am sure I've done it at least a thousand times.
Every parent has struggled with getting a child to sleep. Since the divorce, I only see my boys twice a month. I want them to enjoy their time with me, so I try to keep cool, even after I’ve walked one of them back to bed at least a dozen times.
Just go to sleep, buddy. I sent the monsters to Bismarck for the weekend, and it’s an election year, so the clowns are all prepping for the circus.
There’s nothing to be scared of.
It was well after ten o’clock, and I was frustrated with my boy.
It's already difficult to only see the kids I once spent every non-work hour with. Since we’re together only a fraction of the time, I put much pressure on myself to make it the best possible.
But I’m human, and I’m not an Irish monk (or any monk variant, for that matter), so like most parents, my patience wears thin after the seventh tuck-in. I beat myself up for that.
Then, something from a Daily Stoic Podcast hit me. Something I try to remember when doing stuff I’d rather not be doing - this could be the last time I get to do this.
I think about these things because I'm almost forty. You start to reflect when you reach life’s halfway point (hopefully halfway; it’s possible I shortened my life expectancy by smoking lung darts and treating my body like an amusement park for the first half).
I thought back to when I was my son’s age in our two-story brick house (not to be confused with the 1977 Commodores banger, Brick House, OW!) and called my old man upstairs eighty-six times a night because the frightening design on the curtains across the hall kept me from getting my zee’s.
I think about this as I try to wriggle out whatever keeps my youngest from getting his eight hours.
It’s the toilet monster, he says softly.
As I browse through the T section of my mental filing cabinet, I come up empty. I can't help but wonder what in the name of Tony Danza the toilet monster could be.
The Skibidi toilet clown my brother watches on YouTube, Dad.
Why does it always have to be clowns? YouTube is ruining not only the country but also my sleep.
My boy whispers, so as not to wake his big brother in the bunk above, about his recurring dream about the toilet clown that appears from his refrigerator while he watches TV at home. He then tells me that his stepdad punches the toilet clown in the face and stomach until there’s blood everywhere.
Good grief that is scary and morbid stuff. What else goes through my mini Stephen King’s mind?
I don’t really like clowns either, bud. But at least your stepdad will back you up when the monster comes out, right?
He looks at me as if my hair is made of spaghetti. Obviously, I’m not helping.
Think Kuznia, think.
Buying time until I can drum up something that won’t scar him forever, I ask the boy if he ever has good dreams.
Not really.
What would it be if you could dream about anything in the world?
He thinks about it for ninety seconds, and just before smoke puffs from his ears, a sly smile appears, and he squeaks…Skittles!
Alright, bud, I want you to picture yourself swimming in a giant bin of Skittles.
I briefly considered comparing the candy tank to Scrooge McDuck’s money bin, but then I remembered that it was not 1988, and my stressed-out four-year-old would have no idea what I was talking about. Moreover, if I introduce him to Ducktales, he would wonder how McDuck avoids shattering every bone in his face when diving headfirst onto a pile of gold coins.
I’m trying to calm him down, not kick off a game of twenty questions.
Fortunately, I can tell the thought of a Skittles bin diverted his mind from the scary toilet clown guy, and I realize I’m on the right track, so I press on.
I'll tell you what: if you keep thinking about Skittles, you'll dream about them in no time. He smiles again, but now his mind has shifted to M&M's and jelly beans. So, I tell him that if he goes to sleep, we'll buy a bag of Skittles from the store tomorrow.
Then I ask myself, Adam, what the hell are you doing? You’re always writing about being present and patient and not wishing time away because it’s our most valuable resource, and here you are bribing your boy with a hot dose of Yellow #5 so you can get a few extra minutes of shut-eye.
Selfish jerk. This is the best you’ve got?
This is the good stuff, man. You'll miss these moments in a few years when your child becomes a teenager and no longer wants anything to do with you. You won't be asked to tickle his little armpit to help him calm down and fall asleep like he says his mom does now.
This could be the last time you get to do this.
Cherish it.
My mind drifts back to all those nights of harassing Ma and Pa when I crawled upstairs every twenty minutes because my irrational fear of tornadoes kept me up at night. I’m almost forty and still haven’t been closer than ten miles to a twister, but thanks to Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton, I lost more sleep for three years of my adolescent life than a methed-up trucker because I was certain one was coming to get me.
Tornadoes and toilet clowns. What does it all mean, Basil?
I remember that time and wonder what would’ve helped me sleep. What was it I needed that I couldn’t verbalize to my frustrated parents?
What does my son need? What did I need?
He’s been telling me all along, and somehow, I missed it because all I could think about was getting some sleep.
Dad, can you lay with me?
He needs the same thing I needed years ago - to feel acknowledged and to know that feeling scared is okay.
He needs to be reassured that he is protected.
He needs his Dad.
Finally, I get it.
I stopped thinking and just sat with him. I hug the boy and gently run my fingers across his forehead while his words soften.
A peaceful feeling washes over me as his eyelids fall shut, but I don’t get up and rush back to my business like usual. Instead, I sit there watching him sleep, absorbing the moment.
Presence. This is the wisdom children try to share with us; if only we could spare a moment to understand what they are saying.
I sat there for fifteen minutes, grateful for the moment. I knew it might not happen again, but for now, my mind was present.
They grow up so damn fast.
You go to bed one night when they’re giggling, tooting, and asking a million questions about god knows what. Then you wake up to them signing with junior professional hockey teams or plowing through their first year of college.
Blink and you’ll miss it. Don’t rush bedtime.
Don’t wish time away.
The struggles don’t last forever. Think about that the next time you’re elbow-deep in a diaper, battling a grocery store meltdown, or tucking them in for the sixtieth time this week.
It may be the last time you get to do this.
Been there twice. Not in relation to the occurrences, but to the number of boys I have. They are young adults now, tunneling their way through that in-between period of "I'm too young and I can drink?" I'm glad you found your mojo. All they need is you.
I slept many nights with my oldest, and that was all he needed. My other one needed the same, but he was also the kind that scared me at 3am, hovering like a stalker while I slept. With him, I'd just throw the covers back, and he'd jump in. A few hours later, I'd walk him back to his bed, and that was it. There's always a monster or nightmare. That doesn't change.
I did a bedroom routine too. I watched them brush their teeth, a bath if needed and then read a book of their choosing. As a writer, I had stories too which they loved hearing. Then I fell asleep along with them.
I miss those days, but I've learned to love random hugs, forehead kisses (they're taller than me), and rare occasions they snuggle up to me on the couch to watch TV. The other day, my youngest(17) asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. I sat back and cherished the moment. Don't be discouraged. Your life with your son will be a long road of moments.
That’s beautiful, I’m happy you shared this with me. Parenting can be such a roller coaster, but such a gift.
Thank you for reading and sharing. 🙏