Those Kinds of Parenting Nights

My daughter is crying hard in her bedroom. It’s late at night and I am angry and frustrated. Somehow, in the last two weeks she has reverted from a five-year-old to a two-year-old. She won’t go to bed. She cries, she gets out of bed, she calls for Mom. Only now it is worse because she isn’t just crying; she is saying all the most painful things you can ever hear from your child. “No one loves me, no one ever does anything for me, no one cares about me.”

I have things I want to do. I was about to go for an evening run. After that I might do some work, or spend some time with my wife, or just relax. It’s late, and I already spent the whole day with her. That’s the deal. We play, we eat, we learn. It’s a great gig and everyone has played their part. But the next act in the show is her going to sleep. The hour at the end of the night is supposed to be when parents get their own time to do their own thing.

I walk in the door and she puts her face down on her pillow. She’s disappointed it's Daddy and not Mommy. Daddy has been the enforcer through these challenging weeks, and Daddy’s presence at night means things aren’t going her way. As I look at her, a sad little princess in a yellow Belle nightgown, I’m filled with compassion. My daughter, my child, my beautiful responsibility. I’m overcome with that feeling that silences your inner monologue and allows you to simply act without thought or consideration. I sit on the floor at the side of her bed and put my hand on her back.

I sit there for many minutes, just rubbing my hand back and forth between her tiny shoulder blades. Over time her breathing slows, and she rolls onto her side. She pulls her mermaid doll close, and I hear that first deep breath that precedes deeper rest. Sleep is on the way. My fingertips start to go numb as my arm has been extended over the edge of the bed for too many minutes. Then finally, it happens. At last, she is asleep.

My hopes of getting anything done tonight are gone. Not enough time. Not enough mental or emotional capacity to be productive. Too tired to start a show or do something for fun, I’m in the evening gray zone. I waste many minutes trying to figure out what to do, starting to get frustrated that there’s nothing to be done. But then, instead of getting mad I just flop on the couch next to my wife and stare at the wall. “Whatcha thinking about” my wife prods. “Oh, I’m just contemplating parenting, how it fits into the grand scheme of trying to grow, or create, or make progress in this life. I’m wondering how to balance her needs with your needs and my needs. I’m trying not to go crazy, but also know that life is really good.” My wife doesn’t look up from her crafting. “Classic you, overthinking everything.” Classic me.