An Anomaly

An unusual occurrence just overtook me. Bed time for my kids was forty minutes ago. Normally, this is a blessed time of day that I look forward to with eager anticipation. I love my children, I find them hilarious, inspiring, and amazing... and exhausting. There have been more days than I would like to admit, where I chanted in my head, "Just make it to 6:30. Just to 6:30."

Tonight, both kids were feeling particularly whiny. I think the Purple Tornado was over-tired from a day of destruction and mayhem and being too adorable for words. The boy-cub was having a rough time: mommy cut off the tomato supply after only six, the nasty copyright people pulled Josh and the Big Wall from YouTube, and... well he has an intense weather pattern for a sister. It's a rough life. We managed to get them fed, milked up, "clean handsed", and we had our moment with Hulk and Elmo. (Noah has an Incredible Hulk toothbrush. The toothpaste is Sesame Street. When he is ready to brush his teeth, Noah will put on his deepest, growliest voice and bellow out "HULK 'n ElmOOOO!" Sometimes he will add Cookie Monster, Big Bird, and Iron Man into the mix. Curiously, the only Sesame Street character left out of the toothy inventory is Super Grover. [Who I think would be a smashing addition to the Avengers... Maybe they could trade and send Captain America to Sesame Street... "I don't wike it!"]) From there diaper changes, prayers, kisses, and winding up butterfly mobiles commenced. Then finally the doors were closed, and I slumped into the ten minute post bedtime fuzz.

Now it's 7:30. Usually, the time I take on evening adventures (Bible study, working out, gardening, pounding junk food, and watching Chopped reruns). But tonight, I was overwhelmed with the desire to go back into Noah's room and hang out with my best buddy boy. It's been a rough time, lately. The roller-coaster of this past year in our life has taken another cheek flapping dive, leaving my stomach and my hope back on the last peak. I'm clenching my teeth for the next hard twist, white-knuckling anything solid in front of me, and just praying we don't get flipped upside down again. There are so many blessings we have, but having to count them so often is wearing on me.

This week it has been little things, miniscule, "blips on the radar of our lives" according to my mother. But tonight it's been hard mustering the good cheer to not devour an entire pan of rice krispie treats. Or a full container of feta cheese (I know, I have problems).

I want to hang out with my son. Even in the midst of the whines, they give me such joy. I want to read The Little Blue Truck for the 8,000th time, and have Noah make all the animal sound effects. I want to have him drive his trains down my arm like a railroad track with a chugga-chugga. I want to enter the great monkey and teddy bear debate he is currently hosting, and confirm once and for all who is the fluffiest and snuggliest.

His troubles are simple, not irrelevant, just simple. His moods change quickly, the darkness never lasts too long. He still giggles at things I think are funny, but am too grown up to laugh at. His world is full of light, and drama, and color, and fresh wonder. I just want to be with my Little Man for awhile and remember that he is utterly amazing, that life itself is singularly phenomenal.

But for right now, I have to be a parent. We have a schedule to keep. We have order and discipline to maintain. I have to offer him consistent boundaries enough to keep him safe in a world so free it is paralyzing. I have to be an example of putting aside one's own needs for the better of someone else: because ultimately, it is better that he get some sleep, that he have a routine, that he understand night time and obedience and independence.

Of course, once he falls asleep, all bets are off. He's a deep sleeper, and it wouldn't be the first time I've tiptoed into his room, re-covered him with a blanket, and thanked the God outside of the roller coaster for the twists and turns that made me this Little Man's mother.