“I think I want to put myself to bed tonight,” my daughter announced during our car ride to school this morning.
“What do you mean?” I inquired, surprised. Since her birth, our nightly ritual had remained consistent: change into pajamas, snuggle into bed, sing her special song, turn on the sound machine, switch off the lights, and close the door.
Of course, some things have changed. Diapers evolved into pull-ups, which eventually became big-kid underwear, and she now uses the bathroom independently. She no longer requires assistance in selecting or putting on her pajamas. Her gummy smile transformed into a grin that needed brushing – first by us, then by her own little hands.
Yet, certain elements of our routine have endured. Pajamas, the special song, the sound machine, lights out, and closing the door.
“I think I want to do it by myself,” she reiterated. “I don’t think I need Daddy to sing to me anymore.”
A lump formed in my throat as I realized she was referring to the beloved song Scott sings to her each night. Each of us had our unique song, cherished in its own way. Scott’s was the same melody his mother sang to him as a child, steeped in love and tradition. Mine was a spontaneous creation from when I was a nervous new mom, trying to soothe my crying baby on her first night. That song has worked ever since.
“I’m six now,” she continued, “I’m a big kid, so I can do it myself.”
The lump shifted to my stomach, weighing heavy yet allowing me to respond. “Okay, sweetheart,” I managed to say.
How is this happening? How can she be ready to sleep on her own while still referring to her special song as a verb? Tears welled in my eyes, and I wanted to cry out for just one more chance to sing to her.
It felt akin to those moments when a breakup occurs or when a loved one passes away, and you wish you had recognized that those last moments were significant – that you could have treasured them more deeply. If only I had known when that final moment had arrived.
But I knew I couldn’t prioritize my feelings over her growth. It would be selfish to hold her back just as she is learning to stand on her own two feet. Unsteady and uncertain, but ready.
“I think I want to try,” she had said.
I realized this was something I had been anticipating. I had even thought I wanted her to grow up, to change, to gain independence. I had wished for this moment to come quickly, believing it would make life easier. One less thing to manage at night, one step toward smoother evenings filled with the chaos of bedtime.
Yet, now, it feels too soon. My heart is not ready, even if my mind believes it might be easier. Everything is changing too rapidly for me to process.
Her top tooth is loose, and that radiant smile I have cherished for what seems like forever will soon transform. Just this week, a friend’s innocent remark hurt her heart, leading to tears and a defensive outburst. I was unprepared for the pain I felt as I watched her experience emotional turmoil. These are indeed growing pains.
And now this – wiggly teeth and a bruised heart make me want to hold her closer, just when she is ready for us to loosen our grip.
Something significant is ending. I can sense it deeply. She is telling me herself.
Perhaps one day she will hum our special songs to herself as she tucks into bed, lights off, door closed.
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Summary
This reflective piece captures a mother’s emotional journey as her daughter transitions from relying on her parents for bedtime rituals to seeking independence. Through the lens of a seemingly simple decision about bedtime, the author reveals the profound feelings of nostalgia, pride, and heartache that accompany the process of growing up.