Sometimes, conscious parenting means paying attention to what’s not going on around us.
Our family vacation is over and we are on our way home to New England. Yup. Just jetting our way across the country.
On a scale of one to ten, my exhaustion level is a twenty-two.
We spent the last night of our vacation at a hotel near the airport in Portland, so we could make a morning flight without too much stress or strain.
Oh, sure.
We said goodnight and good-bye to our friends around 9:30 last night and set out for our hotel.
The moment I fired up the rental car, the madness began.
After a long, tiring day – coming at the end of a long, wonderful week – the boys had used up whatever reserves of good behavior they might have had available to them. They argued. They insulted. They wrestled as much as possible, within the confines of their seatbelts.
They exercised all the foul language that they had held back over the past week, while on their (sometimes) best behavior.
In the meantime, I found my way to the airport in a strange city. I checked us in at the hotel and orchestrated the delivery of a week’s worth of luggage to the room.
(Whatever did we do, before they put wheels on suitcases?)
I dragged my complaining children back out to the car. After scouring a five-mile radius (unsuccessfully) for a gas station, I dropped off the rental car with a half-empty tank.
I must have looked pretty frazzled at this point, because the lovely man at the rental agency cut us a break on their normally usurious rates to fill up the tank.
Back at the hotel, I dropped my weary head onto my pillow. Wrapped in my fleece jacket because the air conditioner was working overtime and the room was freezing.
Peace.
Well, not just yet.
The boys were unhappily sharing the bed next to mine.
“Your feet are on my side of the bed.”
“Your head is touching my pillow.”
“Stop taking all the blanket.”
“No, you stop taking all the blanket.”
“Why do you have to be so fat?”
“Why do you have to be so stupid?”
“Move. Over. Now.”
My younger son’s voice sounded like a rumbling volcano, on the brink of eruption.
Danger. Danger. Physical violence about to commence.
I was way beyond any attempts at conscious parenting. And you can forget about polite requests, wheedling or even rewards. I skipped directly to threats.
“If I hear one more sound, neither of you will have breakfast in the morning.”
A “free” breakfast buffet was included with the room, but what the heck. They didn’t know that. And any possible interruption to their food supply was powerful motivation.
They both stopped talking immediately. The sounds of flailing limbs and rustling sheets continued, however.
“I mean it. Any sound – not just talking – means no breakfast tomorrow.”
Aha.
Blissful silence.
As I drifted off to sleep, it occurred to me that these bedtime shenanigans had a familiar feel.
Back in the olden days, we would all visit my grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving and Easter. With six or seven siblings – plus that many cousins – all spread out in sleeping bags on the floor in my grandmother’s attic, bedtime was absolute lunacy.
There would be giggling, fighting and various kinds of horseplay, interspersed with increasingly loud exhortations.
“Stop it!”
“Go to sleep!”
“Shut. Up. Now!!”
My parents, aunts and uncles would take turns coming upstairs to settle us down. Frequently, tempers would fray. Eventually, we would all fall asleep.
I’d forgotten those times.
And I suddenly realized, that maybe I hadn’t been saddled with every possible parenting affliction.
Even when they were little, my children almost always settled down to bed with little drama. My older son, in particular, tends to fall unconscious within thirty seconds of his head touching the pillow.
If I wasn’t so darned tired, I could probably think of a couple more parenting calamities that should be conspicuous by their absence.
Thank You God, for these little blessings.
I’m sorry that I never took the time to notice them before.
I am grateful, that my children don’t usually turn bedtime into a battle royal. Those quiet evening hours are often what keeps me sane.
Upon reflection, I appreciate many other things that my children are not: Fussy eaters, painfully shy, afraid of flying. Totally uncoordinated, like me.
And Thank You, truly, for sending me two boys who, while pushing the limits of the term “wrestling”, at least do not inflict enough damage to warrant a trip to the Emergency Room.
At least, not yet.
Related Posts:
As you prepare for your own family vacation, you might want to check out, My Top 12 Tips for Traveling with Kids on Planes;
Or, Happy Flights: Avoiding Airplane Ear Pain.
Recommended Products:
For a much funnier account of two brothers trying to settle down at bedtime, listen to Bill Cosby’s classic, To Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With.
Or, if you are looking for a little peace in parenting, try Everyday Blessings: The Inner Work of Mindful Parenting, by Myla Kabat-zinn and Jon Kabat-zinn. It has a lovely, meditative quality that will get you feeling good in no time.
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