So my daughter went to sleep on her own for the first time last night. The first time in her own crib, in her own room, without somebody with her. That means that for the last 474 nights she has been rocked, walked, sung, soothed or otherwise parented to sleep. Subtract the nights that her father or babysitter was with her and we're probably left with about 450 nights of sitting in a dark room in a rocker or next to a crib for anywhere from 5 to 45 minutes.
A child's bedtime routing already places significant demands on parents. You make dinner earlier than you have in years, you buy and cook foods for dinner that you wouldn't normally buy or cook or eat, and frequently find yourself snacking on these foods off the plate, table or floor. You spend 15-20 minutes by the side of the tub when you yourself may or may not have showered in the last couple, three, four days yourself. You read the same three or four books every night for a year or more. And, if you're me, you spend on average 20 minutes a night sitting in the glow of a nightlight on the floor of your daughter's room, rubbing her feet, her back, humming, singing, whispering, playing, lulling lulling lulling the girl you haven't seen all day away from you and into sleep, secretly looking forward to giving her a bottle on the couch in 5 hours.
But I don't mean to be backward looking, not when this bears so much on the future. Because K- putting herself to sleep is monumental. It is a harbinger of a mother's return to self. Putting K- to bed and walking out of the room doesn't simply amount to an extra 2.3 hours a week to rest, watch TV, write, pluck, paint, preen, wash, fold, cook, read or exercise. Those twenty minutes haven't been simply lost opportunities. Those minutes actively drain from you every last ounce of energy and patience you've shored up during the day. Those minutes echo with the beat of how little your life belongs to you, and how much your life belongs to another. Certainly by choice. No doubt. And certainly rewarding (so pipe down, okay?). But the magnitude of of it is astounding nonetheless. Particularly if you come to it late in life, after a couple of decades of complete and utter independence.
And so, for K- to lay down in her crib, watch me walk out of her room and put herself to sleep is nothing short of a door swinging open. I may not write a novel or even read one, but now it's nobody's fault but my own.
