Sleepless in the Suburbs

When the visual image on my phone comes into focus, my face gleams. I take in my adult son’s face and the image of him holding my youngest grandson, now ten months old, close to the screen.

“Aww, it’s great to see you guys. The baby looks happy, but…” I hesitate, letting motherly concern creep into my voice at his sallow complexion and bloodshot eyes. “You look tired, honey! Are you killing yourself with work and travel?”

He lets out a big harumph and his hazel eyes become half-lidded. “That’s not the issue this week,” he snaps. “And it’s not this little guy preventing an entire household from getting a good night’s sleep.” He cuddles the baby and plants a big, noisy raspberry-style kiss on a chubby cheek.

Frowning deeply, he turns back to the camera. “It’s your other grandson.”

I lift my free hand and cover the smirk forming as my son explains the three-year-old’s continuing poor sleep patterns.

“He just won’t stay in his bed at night. No matter what we do, he shows up in our room crying in the middle of the night, begging to climb in bed with us.”

As he details their efforts to reason with, placate, and maneuver my stubborn grandson back to his cozy bedroom at three, four, and five a.m., my mind drifts back. I remember a time when my now thirty-something son was five and played the same starring role in the I-don’t-want-to-sleep-in-my-own-bed drama.

I keep snickering softly. I know I should maintain a poker face, listen compassionately, and offer consolation to ease my son’s misery, but I don’t. I can’t. One of the delights of being a parent is watching your adult children parent their own kids. Besides, my own mother’s voice is chirping in my head: What goes around, comes around.

Indeed.

When my son was five, we had just moved for the fourth time in two years. The first move was an international relocation to Mexico for a six-month job assignment. Returning to the States meant living in a corporate apartment—temporary quarters for our family of five—while we searched for a home in Chicago’s western suburbs. After settling into what we thought would be a forever home, I learned I was pregnant with our fourth child. Six months later, we moved again this time to a bigger house. My son got a newly decorated sports-car-themed bedroom, complete with a Corvette-shaped twin bed. But all that decorating—efforts that might be considered bribes for good behavior—failed to give my son a true sense of belonging and security.

Every night after the routine of bath time, bedtime stories, and evening prayers, my husband and I retreated to our own room, eager to unwind with a novel or magazine. Without fail, our bedroom door creaked open (it was a historic home, so every door groaned despite WD-40), and our son’s freckled face and chubby cheeks appeared at our bedside. My husband and I took turns escorting him back to his room. The routine rewound itself night after night, wearing us down. No amount of cajoling or reasoning worked. My husband refused to let him climb into our bed. The compromise was to let him sleep on the floor next to us with a pillow and blanket—uncomfortable enough, my husband insisted, that he’d eventually return to his own bed. Whether it took weeks or months, I can’t recall, but the effects of the sleep disruption remain vivid.

With these memories rolling around in my mind, I ask my son now, “What else is going on in your lives that might be causing the sleep issues?”

The lines on my son’s forehead deepen. “It could be my absences due to work travel. Maybe some anxiety about his momma’s schedule. Or something going on at preschool. Hard to know.”

“How did you handle the frequent visits last night?”

My son describes their efforts. When he mentions that the five a.m. visit ended with my grandson sneaking into their bed, I laugh.

“I know, I know, Mom. Big mistake. But we were so tired by that point.”

My mother’s mantra—What goes around, comes around—flashes in my mind.
I remind him about his father’s old rule: “You can stay in here with your mother and me, son, but not in our bed. You’ll have to sleep on the floor.”

My son hangs his head. “At this point, we’ll try anything.”
Before we end our call, I offer my two cents—though not the phrase What goes around, comes around, despite it hovering on the tip of my tongue.

“This will take time. He’ll eventually learn to self-soothe and work through his anxiety or insecurities. It’s part of growing up.” I can’t help adding, “You certainly took a while. In your case, like father, like son.”

We both chuckle as we disconnect.

As I think about all this now, it occurs to me that despite the different eras in which my son and I parent, some things never change. It’s anyone’s guess when trying to gauge a child’s developmental stage or what triggers their need for comfort and safety.

One thing is for certain, though: putting a child to sleep is tricky business and not for the faint of heart. Bedtime routines require a parenting team that stays aligned and operates with consistent compassion and a firm hand. It isn’t up to Grandma to criticize—though she can certainly chuckle to herself about how history repeats itself—and she can be darn sure that when she visits, she will become an active participant in putting the difficult grandchild to bed.