Sleep

When Daniel was a toddler, he was our child who just wouldn’t sleep.  No matter how tired he was, he refused to nap and refused to stay in bed at night. He was the one who tried my patience most on these matters, although Phillip and Kelsey had their moments, too.

Now, thanks to higher education, all of our older kids have turned into night owls. They have their own wonky sleep patterns, which is no big deal at school, but can be inconvenient and awkward when they’re back at home.  Those of us who are not college students do most of our living during the daylight, and it’s not always convenient to tiptoe around if the young vampires choose to nap in the middle of the day in the middle of the family room.

When we adopted, one of the things we were cautioned about was the possibility of our kids having nightmares and sleep disorders. This was never a problem; from the beginning, the kids went to bed easily, and if they woke during the night, they kept it to themselves. But in those early days when I’d check on them after they had fallen asleep, they didn’t have that peaceful and angelic look that most kids get when they sleep. They seemed troubled, even when far away in dreamland. Lily in particular sprawled across the bed as if fighting some sort of epic battle. Her contorted posture reminded me of the fossilized people of Pompeii, trapped for all time wrestling in the lava that they could not outrun.

Over time this has changed, and Lily now sleeps peacefully, angelically. In fact, she’s so “normal” that she’s started to complain about her bedtime: “Why do I have to go to bed at 8, even on the weekends?” It’s not that she minds going to bed; it’s that she hates to think that she’s missing anything. Like most kids, she still doesn’t understand that bedtime is not a punishment, and sleep is a gift.  

Lewi hates to go to bed, but what he hates even more is getting up to go to school. On the weekend he’s up before any of us, but during the school week, every morning he complains of being tired. My attempts to point out the correlation between going to bed early and feeling rested in the morning are a lost cause at this point. Maybe someday…

A few nights ago I woke to find Lewi standing by my bed. “Mom, I had a bad dream, and there were geckos in my room. Can I sleep with you?” It’s not an unusual request for a six-year-old, but he’s never asked to sleep with us before, and I’m not sure where he learned it. Perhaps it’s universal in kids—instinctual, like complaining about bedtime.  But even in the wee hours, I could recognize it as a sign of trust in me as a parent. I held open the covers; he snuggled in next to me and, safe from the geckos, soon was back to sleep.

Later that day Lily was reading in the recliner, one of her favorite after-school activities. It suddenly occurred to me that she hadn’t turned a page in quite a while, and that her breathing was heavy and regular. It was another first. At 4:30 in the afternoon, Lily was taking a nap, a sign that, finally, she might be at peace in her home.

What an amazing gift, the gift of sleep. It’s the world’s cheapest beauty treatment, for both the external and the internal self. It gives us both an escape from, and a way through, emotional ups and downs. Sleep renews inspiration and gives us hope to try again.

It’s also a barometer of what is really going on inside us. How we sleep, when we sleep, what we dream are all cues to who we are. And maybe to what we can become.