Skip to main content

Late Night Wake Ups

Most of my friends have their babies on well-regulated nighttime sleep schedules.  Felicity on the other hand has yet to attain that accomplishment. Mostly, because of the ease of slipping her into bed with me for a nighttime snack as opposed to listening to her very opinionated and long-winded protest that getting out of her crib is really the best plan, is just easier with a one-bedroom house.

And there is something sweet about it. Something sweet in knowing that when she wakes up in the night, I can comfort her. All to soon, she will not need her nighttime snacks. The little face, which nuzzles down next to me won’t need literal nourishment from me any longer. All ready she is three times the size of the little, bitty girl that I met eight months ago. Combing back her hair and cuddling with her is precious. 

These late night wake-ups make me reflect on a couple of different things within the light of day. First, the picture of a mamma feeding a baby makes me think how parents in one sense always need to feed their children. Their kids don’t just need physical food, but they need emotional and spiritual nutrients as well. It impresses upon me the seriousness and the grace from God that we need in order to feed our children. Secondly, a line from a Tennyson poem keeps going through my head. “No language but a cry.” Though the context of the poem doesn’t make the application I am currently making, the line reminds me that for a baby, crying is her language. I want to answer her cries. Yet that desire is contrasted with another desire. As she gets older and gains more language, as I have seen with many an almost two year-old, the cries become tantrums railing against the rules set by mamas everywhere. How does one answer the real cries while training and directing the other cries? Mothers everywhere need wisdom.

Am I indulging her cries in these late night wake ups? Maybe. Is it ok to bring her to bed? Yes, for now. 


God, grant us and parents everywhere the wisdom and the strength to parent our children well. Feed us, so that we can feed them.    

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Adventure Begins Very Early on the Morning of July 15th

Note: In-N-Out is the first place I go when I arrive back in California. The California chain tastes like coming home. My day had been planned. I was going to walk with friends. Have coffee with my mom and a phone date in the evening. Followed by my husband asking, “what should we have for dinner.” And me responding “In-n-Out.” I’ll admit it I did exercise in hopes of expediting the labor process, but as I had been told, “babies will come when they will.” So I laid my plans: Plan A the aforementioned walk etc. and Plan B— Have a baby. When my mom arrived, full of more energy than I’m used to her having (a contrast with my labored lack of energy), it was apparent that Plan B was in effect. We were most definitely not going to coffee. I was going to have a baby. Labor… it’s not fun. Epidurals… they are a wonderful invention. It was late evening. I’d hoped they’d let me push on the 14 th . The history nerd in me was caught by the idea of having a baby on Bastille D...

The Bicycle Onsie is too Small!!

The fabric stretched around Felicity’s little feet and nestled her in a perfect fit. It was the first time I’d put Felicity in a onesie with feet. Up until then, she wore t-shirt onesies that snapped around her diaper. They were light and perfect for the hot summer days. But when nighttime came, Felicity liked to be cuddled and the footsie onsie was the perfect solution. Up until now, all Felicity’s clothes flopped and folded around Felicity’s tiny, baby body. She swam in the extra fabric. This onsie was snug and it fit like it was made for her. She’d wave her little legs and arms and the white fabric with little bicycles printed across its surface stretched with her. I loved putting her into it. Then something happened. It didn’t take long…maybe a couple of weeks. The bicycle onesie was washed following a diaper explosion and the cotton cloth shrunk. But just a little. Felicity’s cheeks and limbs became rounder and her eyes wider. She watched the ceiling fan and figured o...

Slaying Giants

Days like this begin when the night before I choose not to sleep, because I must read a few more lines from some news site or scroll one last time through the glowing screen of my iPhone instead of making good on my resolve to read quality literature and journal prior to bed. They continue when I wake up earlier than usual to teach, but finish teaching to realize that my children also went to bed later then they should. So now, everyone’s patience operates like feet hitting a wet spot on a wood floor. Bam. You loose traction. And first one then another is upset and done. That tantrum sparked another melt-down from someone else, and as I try to not join the melt-downs, and instead attempt to be the adult I hazard some words of explanation.  “Your choices impact us all.” I tell one of them.  My children’s choice do change the tenor of the room for good or for ill, but so do my choices. On days of this sort, where nothing is really wrong, other than a strong case of the grumpies...