I’m not saying that I’ve got the magic touch, but let the evidence speak for itself.
Charlie’s been having a tough time sleeping lately. Well, to be more accurate, he’s been waking up an hour or so into the night’s sleep, crying and scared. We think he’s hearing the girls/dog upstairs, since they walk on the creaky floorboards over his bedroom. And they’re louder than hungry ogres and angry trolls. He wakes up, sees the shadows cast on his ceiling by the Mater night-light, hear Shrek and Fiona struggling over the last chicken wing above his room, and decides that he’s ready for an intervention. He doesn’t speak English yet, but I’m pretty good at reading his vocal cues. His cries have been accurately compared to the ambulances that roll from the station down the street.
That’s when I do my best work.
And honestly, there’s no secret to it. I don’t get him out of his bed. I speak quietly, assure him that he’s ok, identify the scary sounds so that they’re not unknown to him, and tuck him back under his blankie. I hold his hand or touch his head, have him to close his eyes, and tell him that it’s time to go to sleep.
Kim’s always stunned when I step back into the room, Charlie placated and sleeping soundly, in a matter of minutes. I give her that “I’m a professional dad–that’s what I do” look as I strut across the room.
Of course, I’ve locked myself into being the first responder in any and every Charlie crying scenario from now until Jesus returns. But I’m ok with that. After all, I’m a professional dad. That’s what I do.
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