As summer draws to a close, my son, Ethan, is 7 ½ years old and preparing for second grade. Each night, I find myself lying next to him until he drifts off to sleep. He’s what I like to call a live wire—constantly engaged in his thoughts, his body in perpetual motion. Unlike my younger son, Ethan isn’t the most cuddly child. He enjoys being held but doesn’t always reciprocate the affection. From the time he was a baby, sleep has never come easily to him; it takes a considerable effort to help him unwind.
And while his father can sometimes step in, I’m the one he prefers to tuck him in at night. Is it because I’m his mom, the source of comfort? Is it because we’ve shared countless nights like this? Is it simply a matter of habit? Most likely, it’s a combination of all these factors. Despite the exhaustion that comes with it, I cherish these moments.
Once the lights go out, Ethan begins to relax. His voice often quivers as he shares his worries—sometimes it’s something that’s been bothering him for weeks, or it might be his latest obsession with a video game or show. These conversations feel sacred, a quiet ritual between us.
This summer has been challenging due to our recent move, which has only amplified his anxiety. What once took 20 minutes to settle has stretched into much longer nights. “I can’t fall asleep,” he’ll say, his voice thick with emotion. “You will,” I reassure him, “your body needs sleep, and it will come.” In the past, I could sneak away during these long sessions, but now he insists on my presence.
One evening, after what felt like an eternity, I was growing restless and frustrated. The day had been long, and it was nearing 10 p.m. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of resentment that I was the only one who could soothe him to sleep. Just as I was about to sneak out, I overheard a soft sigh. Moments later, Ethan appeared in the kitchen, squinting at the light. “I just really need you to stay,” he said, his voice trembling and tears forming. All my annoyance melted away in an instant, replaced with a wave of regret. I wrapped him in my arms, whispering, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
In that moment, I was struck by his ability to express his needs so simply and clearly. Ethan is a bright kid, articulate and intelligent, yet like many children—especially those who think deeply—he often struggles to voice his feelings without sounding whiny.
While some might see our nighttime routine as unrealistic, it works for us. I trust that he will eventually outgrow this need. Over the years, whether cradling him as a baby, holding him in my arms, or simply being there to listen, I hope I’ve taught him that his feelings are valid and that there are safe spaces where he can share them.
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In summary, this journey of parenting, filled with its frustrations and rewards, has taught me the importance of being present for my children. Moments like these remind us that even during the most trying times, our presence can make all the difference.
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