Midnight Snack

Being a mommy is not easily described. It’s probably similar to describing existence and time-space-continuum. The things that would define motherhood are never clean cut, mostly engage emotions, and rarely communicate in English. Perhaps another language would fair better? We’ll count this my first attempt:

Midnight Snack

There are nights that my four-year-old can’t sleep, although when she does sleep she could sleep in a wind tunnel, much like her father. After she was born, my husband would sleep through crying, nursing, changing, and more crying. He would sleep through singing lullabies and readings of Goodnight Moon. He would sleep through it all without a sigh or a turn, and I was extremely jealous. My Allie, she sleeps like him.

But on nights when sleep is chased away by shadows of monsters and stuffed animals, I lie down beside her in her twin bed and stroke the tender, pale skin of her forehead, cheek, and nose. I whisper to her that everything is okay, I am here. I run my fingernail gently behind her ear as my grandmother did to me in similar situations. I comfort her.

One night, she is at her bedroom door crying out, “Mommy, mommy!” and I run up the stairs to stop her screaming before she wakes up her little brother, Elijah. Their rooms are right beside each other in our small home, and noise travels easily through our thin walls. “Mommy, mommy, come up here, mommy, mommy!”

As I push her door open, I hear before I see her running to jump in her bed. She thinks she’s in trouble. And sometimes, she is. But tonight, as tears slide down her sweet face, I hug her close to me. “What is it, Allie?”

“I’m scared,” she says, her voice not quite whiny. It’s almost ten at night, and she is tired. Her blue eyes droop, her lashes low on her cheeks creating shadows.

“What are you scared of?” I ask. This same conversation happens tens of times throughout the month, sometimes it’s the animals and sometimes it’s the TV downstairs that has woken her. Once it was the noises from outside her window, cars shutting their doors or honking their horns.

“I’m scared of the dinosaur,” she tells me as she points to the stuffed T-Rex my aunt brought back to her from a business trip. “He’s growling at me. I think he’s hungry.” I try not to laugh at her, she’s so serious. “Can you feed him something? I don’t want him to eat me when I’m sleeping.”

I nod and stand and take the T-Rex into my hands holding his mouth up to my left ear. “Now, Mr. Rex, what’s wrong with you?” I ask him and wait for the appropriate time for his response. “You’re hungry?” I say. “Interesting. And what would you like to eat?” More time. “Really? I didn’t know that dinosaurs ate that.” I turn to Allie who is sitting up on her pillow, slightly apprehensive. “Allie, did you know that Mr. Rex likes to eat peanut butter toenails?”

“Mom!” She giggles. “He doesn’t eat peanut butter toenails!” She’s all smiles.

“Sure he does. He told me so. But now the question is, do you have any peanut butter toenails in here? I need to feed him so that you guys can go to bed.”

She thinks for a moment, her index finger pressed into her chin. “I think so… maybe in the top drawer?” I open the drawer of her chest and dig around until I find what I’m looking for.

Holding up my hand, I ask, “Is this it?” She shakes her head, so I return my hand to her open drawer until I find something else. “This?” Again, no. Once more, I rummage through the drawer, pulling with both hands until I find exactly what I think will work. I hold it out for her inspection. “This?”

“That’s it!” she cheers and crawls to the end of the bed to take it from me. It’s huge and takes both of her hands to carry it to the dinosaur. It’s also invisible. She places the large offering of peanut butter toenails in front of the stuffed dinosaur, pats him on the head and then says, “Eat this and go to sleep. You’re wearing me out!”

After he’s eaten (she watches to make sure he’s finished), I pull the covers back over her head and settle her blankie-bear against her cheek. “Now,” I ask, “are you ready for bed?” She nods and turns and closes her eyes. “I love you, Allie.”

“I love you, too, Mommy.” I walk to the door, and as I pull it behind me, I hear, “You’re the best mommy, Mommy. And I love you this huge much. Sweet dreams.” Her arms are open wide.

“I love you that huge much, too. Sweet dreams.”