Parenting
By Alex Walker
Updated: Aug. 20, 2015
Originally Published: Dec. 28, 2014
“I think I want to try putting myself to bed tonight,” my daughter announced on our way to school this morning.
“What do you mean?” I asked, a bit taken aback. Since she was born, our bedtime routine had remained fairly consistent: change into pajamas, snuggle into bed, sing a special song, turn on the sound machine, switch off the lights, and close the door.
Of course, changes have occurred over the years. Diapers transitioned into pull-ups, then to underwear, and she no longer requires our assistance to get into her pajamas. Her gummy grin evolved as she grew teeth that needed brushing—first with our help, then on her own.
Yet, some parts remained untouched. Pajamas, the special song, the sound machine, lights off, and the door closing still held their place.
“I really think I can do it by myself,” she repeated. “I don’t think I need Dad to sing to me anymore.”
A lump formed instantly in my throat. She was referring to the cherished lullaby that Nate sings each night. Each of us had our own unique song—different, yet equally dear to her. Nate’s was the same melody his mother sang to him as a child, steeped in tradition and love. Mine was a tune I had created in those early days of motherhood, trying to soothe my newborn daughter. It worked that night and has ever since.
“I’m six now,” she continued. “I’m a big kid, so I can do it myself.”
The lump in my throat shifted to my stomach, weighing me down like a boulder, but allowing me just enough strength to respond. “Okay, honey,” I managed to say.
How can this be happening? How can she be ready to drift off to sleep without our songs when she still refers to them as a verb? I felt tears welling up and the urge to scream, “Just one more time! Let us sing to you one last time!”
This moment felt eerily similar to when you realize a relationship has ended or when a loved one passes away. You wish you had savored those final kisses and embraces if only you had known they were the last. I wish I had known that would be the final time for our lullabies.
But I recognized that prioritizing my feelings over her needs would be unfair. She’s like a young foal, ready to stand on her own—unsteady, unsure, but eager.
“I think I want to try,” she said, and deep down, I know I’ve been waiting for this moment. I even thought I wanted it—the growing independence, the changes. I wished for it, believing it would be easier. Perhaps it will be, relieving one small task from the chaotic nighttime routine.
Yet, this feels too soon. My heart isn’t ready. While it might ease my mind, it weighs heavily on my heart. Everything is shifting too rapidly, and I’m afraid I can’t keep up.
Her top tooth is loose, and that bright, dimpled smile I have cherished forever is about to change. Just this week, a friend’s innocent comment left her in tears—an unexpected glimpse into her fragile heart, which was momentarily exposed. Watching her feel that pain was something I wasn’t prepared for. These are undoubtedly growing pains.
Now, with wiggly teeth and a tender heart, all I want to do is hold her closer, just as she’s ready to loosen our embrace.
Something significant is ending here, and I can feel it deeply. She is signaling this change herself.
Maybe someday she will hum our special songs as she tucks herself in, drifting off to sleep with just the sound machine and lights out.