Every Night

Every night I tuck Elias into bed, a ritual that continues despite his almost sixteen years.

Elias lies on his stomach and kicks his legs back behind him as I pull up one blanket at a time. He finds his small lamby pillow and sets it just so on top of his regular pillow, then he puts his well worn teddy bear Timmy in the corner. He does this every night without fail.

Make sure what you do at home will work out in the world--the words of a grown man with cerebral palsy talking on a video to parents of children with special needs.

Make sure what you do at home will work out in the world.

These words echo in my head as I hear myself say, "Head to your room Elias and I'll be there in a moment to tuck you in."

This routine doesn't work for the world. I won't always be in his bedroom at night, ready to pull his fleece and cotton blankets over his muscled shoulders.

I know this. I know he needs to awkwardly maneuver his own body under cover.

But it is a routine we both rely on, the period at the end of our day, when we come together and say good night.

Elias craves structure, repetition, order.

And with so much of parenthood beyond my control, there is something comforting about settling our children down for the night.  

We survived another day in this world that grows less predictable with age--this world of wildfires, hurricanes, avalanches, and hearts that stop long before their time.

"Mom, can I snuggle with you?" Olive asks, more nights than she doesn't, as she crawls into our bed in the small dark hours before light.

When she was three and Nick and I spoke about the challenges of her sleeping with us every night, I remember saying, "She won't still be climbing in bed with us when she's seven so we might as well enjoy it now."

Now she is ten, and I still love her lithe little body curling up with mine. Its still works in my world, even if it means feeling squished or her hair tickling my face or getting kicked in the gut, it works because for these few hours, she is safe in my arms, when for the rest of time she grows more independent, more capable, more beyond my reach.

And I don't know what this world will offer in the months and years ahead--all the story lines I read weave despair and destruction into the final chapters. Hope no longer falls in abundance from the skies, collecting on our doorsteps, with the promise of prosperity around every bend.

But the act of tucking my teenager into bed, gives me a small dose of hope for tomorrow. Lifting up my covers and letting my ten-year-old daughter maneuver her body into mine, helps me believe that somehow the human family will find more ways to embrace and articulate love.

These acts remain small, but bold under the shadows of fear and apathy that creep into the darkened corners of my soul.  

I find solace in the moments of ordinary life, the kiss on the top of the head, the blanket pulled to the base of the neck, the bodies entwined in the darkest hours of the night.

It may not work for the world beyond my home--but in these small moments my home becomes the only world I need.

Comments

[Candice]

I get holding onto those small bedtime rituals. I still tuck in Anna and give her a goodnight hug and kiss every night, at 15yo. If it’s a weekend and I’m going to bed before her, she tucks me in. It’s only been in the last 3 months, since we remodeled her bedroom and she now has a comfy queen bed, that she doesn’t ask to sleep in my bed anymore at least one night a week. We’ll see how it changes over the next few years before the end of high school, but I plan to hold onto it as long as I can.

[Kate]

I love that you still do this every night and that Elias continues to expect/allow it. A beautiful way to close even the hardest of days.

[Christy]

Candice, I love that she tucks you in too! And cheers to holding onto these moments of connection.

Thank you Kate, after one particularly hard day with one of his meltdowns he just leaned his head into mine as I tucked him in and we sat like that for a minute or so. It helped.