This might sound strange to those of you who have this image of me as some super-progressive-duty-sharing-gender-role-stereotype-fighting-former-stay-at-home-dad, but until the other night, I don’t think I’d ever really put The Pumpkin to bed totally by myself.  [La dra. and I are rarely apart in the evening.  Unlike some couples who do their “guy” things and “girl” things out, separately, we just never have.]  In the beginning, of course, it stemmed from la dra. having to nurse her to sleep, which, obviously, I couldn’t do.  But eventually, as the amount of time she had been back at work became considerably longer than the amount of time she’d been able to take off, I guess I sort of thought of the whole bedtime ritual that evolved—bathtime, pajamas, storytime, sleep—as mommy-and-baby-bonding time, as much deserved “alone” time after a long day of watching after the health of other people, and other people’s children.  I don’t know if I ever exactly voiced that to her, especially not after one of those (increasingly frequent) days when The Pumpkin would fight taking a bath, screaming and flailing, or when she’d only fall asleep after 23 storybooks and two whole repetitions of her 40-minute bedtime CD.  

 

But even nine months after we became a two-working-parent family, that’s still pretty much how nighttimes go.  That’s not to say, however, that I’m not involved in the ritual.  Today’s version includes me popping in and out of the bathroom to watch, help, or entertain as need be (not a lot of room between the bathtub and the cabinetry, and it gets hot in there!), reading the first book of the night (“Goodnight Moon”) after pajamas are on, and taking her towel back to the bathroom.  It’s getting hard to remember all the variations we’ve gone through, or when we used to do them, or how long they lasted: helping bathe our tiny babygirl in the plastic tub next to the sink; being in charge of toweling off, diapering, and pajama-putting-on (toddlergirl hasn’t let me do any of those things in a long time); reading “Charlie Parker Played Be Bop” or other books; listening at the door to see if the CD had gone past the fourth song, meaning it was my turn to go in and try to put her to sleep via rocking, shushing, and otherwise moving around the room in the dark without stopping....

 

 

Well, half-an-hour later, BFF’s mommy calls to see if la dra. could just come hang out by herself.  The Pumpkin had been fine in the interim, so I asked her, again, if she wanted to go to BFF’s house.  This time, she said yes, happily, and ran to find her shoes.  Okaaay...  So we loaded in to the car, with her singing along to her kiddie-songs CD in the back, eventually growing quiet.  And, of course, about 5 minutes away from our destination, I crane my neck to peek back there and—she’s asleep.  Sigh.  Okay.  So we get to their house, I keep the motor running, and she doesn’t wake up.  I drop off la dra. for some ladies-only time, and head home.  20 minutes later, I pull into our driveway—still asleep.  I turn the car off, pick her up, and take her into the house and into her room—still asleep.  I turn on her music and take off her pants—so far so good.  I rock her around the room a little, enjoying the feel of her in my arms, which I don’t get to experience much anymore [she doesn’t need to be rocked to sleep for naps much anymore].

 

And then it happens.  She opens her eyes, starts screaming for mama, flailing and kicking hard.  It’s over.  The only way I can get her to calm down is to say we’ll go back in the car—tricking her, I guess, in to thinking we’ll go back to BFF’s house.  But instead, I drive in circles around our neighborhood for half an hour, and though she’s calm and sucking on a binky, she’s wide awake.  Shit.  I finally take her home, get inside, and try to take her back to her darkened room.  Commence the crying and flailing.  Okay, okay, no sleep yet, no sleep yet.  I go heat up some dinner for both of us.  She’s fine, not crying for mama or anything.  She climbs up onto a chair next to me, talking to me, watching me eat, cramming noodles into her mouth.  I tell her that as soon as she’s done eating, we’re going to take a nice bath (the previous night had been one of those “hurry, wipe down the screaming child” nights), and then we’ll read some books and go to sleep.  Okay, she says.  I ask her if she’s done eating.  I’m still eating, she says.  I say again, eat your noodles, then we’ll take a nice bath.  And before I can finish, she looks at me and says, “Then I try again to sleep.  I can do it.”

 

My heart just melts, and my fears dissipate.  Yes you can, baby, yes you can.  Bathtime goes amazingly well, no kicking, no crying, no fighting, just soap and water and toys and fun, and she even lets me wash her hair and cocks her head back like I tell her so I don’t get water in her eyes.  I tell her well in advance when we’re going to get out of the tub, and when it’s time, she doesn’t fight that either.  I get her in her p.j.s, dry and comb her hair while she’s in my lap, and I read three books, “Goodnight Moon” and her “Philippines books” which mama always reads (she pronounces it “Fil-peens”).  I turn off the light, turn on her music, put her in her crib and tell her I’m going to lay down on the floor and put my hand through the slats for her to hold.  Five songs later, I turn on the nightlight to check, and she’s asleep.  Five minutes later, mama comes come from a nice night with her friends, skin all soft and microdermabraded.

 

What could’ve been a disaster—what I expected to be a disaster—wasn’t.  I put my babygirl to sleep, by myself.  And I know that, no matter how many screaming, flailing, fighting-bathtime, crying-for-mama/”No, I don’t want you!” nights we have in store for us in the future, I can do it again.