Sheep Sleep

As a parent of two very young children, I must confess to breathing a tremendous sigh of relief each night when I close the second bedroom door, indicating that both girls are finally asleep, or on the verge. I am a little worried that I am jinxing myself by saying that I have been lucky in this department; Lily was an excellent sleeper from very early on, happy to go to sleep and sleeping through the night consistently from the time she was a few months old. I can count on the fingers of one hand the times she has woken up between the hours of 8 at night and 6 in the morning. At 8 months, Annika appears to be following in her footsteps. When set down in her crib for a nap or at bedtime, she rolls onto her side, covers her eyes with the corner of a blanket or soft toy, and is asleep within minutes, pretty much every night.

I know this is good fortune, and I don't take it for granted; rather, I capitalize on the hours I have after those doors are closed. But I have become accustomed to the routine, which is why I jumped in my seat when this evening at about 8 I suddenly felt a presence at my elbow.

"I cannot sleep, Mama," the presence, who had been put to bed a half an hour previous in a completely different bedtime outfit, proclaimed in a small, pitiful voice in which a thread of hope could be detected. "I want to stay up late with you."

Reader, I was unmoved. I took her hand and walked her back to bed, tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and told her to close her eyes and think about beautiful places she has been, which is what my mother always said to me when I could not fall asleep. As I walked out of her room, though, those words resonated in my head, along with an image of another small girl, in an equally odd sleeping get-up, coming out of her room again and again and again.

I shook off the thought; I had been older during that period. I sat back at my desk and resumed my work. Ten minutes passed, and then the padding of little feet. Same girl, different outfit, same plaintive voice, pathetic grimace. Same march back to bed. I ignored the puzzle and stack of books also in the bed, told her she needed to stay in the bed, that she would fall asleep eventually.

The third time, I was truly surprised. I could not remember another time it had taken her this long to fall asleep, including her recent bout with pneumonia, the night before her birthday, ever. Yes, it was highly possible she was willing herself to stay awake, a tactic I know well, but it seemed hard to believe she was physically capable of it after a long and active day, a big dinner, warm bath, long story, typical routine.

I was on the phone this time, and I got off, told Lily I was going to teach her about counting sheep. This perked her up; I can't even imagine what she thought this meant, as when we walked into her room she turned to me, arms outstretched, and said, "I'm ready. How do we do it?"

We got in the bed together, and again I tucked her in. I told her to close her eyes and picture a fence, a low one, low enough for sheep to leap over. I instructed her to imagine a woolly sheep ("An itchy one?") running toward and leaping over the fence, followed by another sheep and then another sheep, and that if she did this for long enough she would fall asleep before she even knew it. I looked at her small face, smooth brow, perfect crescent eyebrows. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips moving. She was counting. I kissed her again and tiptoed out of the room.

By the time I picked up the phone again, sat back down, which is to say approximately 6 seconds later, I heard the voice, from the bedroom this time.

"I have counted fifty-seven sheep, and I. Am. Not. Asleep!"

It never worked for me either.