It was just past 10 p.m. when I found myself lying beside my 9-year-old daughter, Lily. I had returned home from work about half an hour earlier and noticed she was still awake. As I entered her room to say goodnight, I saw her sitting cross-legged on her bed, flashlight in hand, clad in her pink unicorn pajamas. With her big, frightened blue eyes looking up at me, she whispered, “I’m scared.”
I could have opted for a more traditional approach. I might have told her to be brave, insisted there was nothing to fear, or mentioned my own needs—like my hunger or the shower I still needed to take. I could have pointed out that she was too old to be afraid of the dark. Those were the kinds of responses my parents offered me when I sought comfort.
Instead, I took a deep breath and crawled into bed beside her. Just a few weeks prior, I had done the same for my 11-year-old son, Alex, who had expressed fear after I arrived home late. And when my youngest, Mia, wanders into my room in the middle of the night, frightened by who knows what, I lay down with her as well.
I don’t resist these moments. Instead, I snuggle close and offer them the comfort they seek.
I know some might argue that comforting older kids is what’s wrong with today’s youth. They’ll predict that my children will struggle with independence, perhaps ending up on a talk show lamenting their inability to leave home because I was there for them during their nighttime fears. Honestly, I’m not concerned about that.
What I can say for certain is that my reasons for lying down with my children extend beyond their comfort; there’s a selfish aspect to it as well. I juggle two jobs, often leaving before they wake and returning home long after they’ve gone to bed. The night is often the only time I have to connect with them. And those moments of snuggling after they’ve been tucked in are precious.
It’s not just about comfort; it’s about connection. When I lie down with Alex, he often opens up in ways he doesn’t during our usual family routines. He’ll share stories about his day, the kid he struggles with at school, or even something funny that happened in class. It’s a special time when he feels safe enough to talk, and I cherish it.
Lily, too, becomes more expressive at bedtime. She shares her feelings and thoughts in a way that she wouldn’t during dinner or in the car. These moments of vulnerability are worth any lost sleep I might experience.
As for Mia, I’m not entirely sure what she talks about when I’m there, but her cute chatter is delightful. She’s the youngest, growing up so quickly, and I treasure every second I can spend with her.
For busy fathers and mothers alike, these moments are irreplaceable. While stay-at-home parents enjoy all-day access to their kids, there’s something uniquely heartwarming about soothing a scared child and having undistracted moments to listen to them.
That night, as I lay next to Lily, she nestled into my side, breathing softly against me. Initially tense from her fear of the dark, she gradually relaxed. Soon, she began to chatter about her teacher and the amusing things that happen at school, or the new game she and her friends created during recess. Eventually, her voice faded into silence; she had drifted off to sleep. I quietly slipped out from under her arm and headed downstairs to grab a bite to eat, feeling it was a lovely conclusion to a long day.
These connections matter just as much to me as they do to my children.
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In summary, as my children grow older, I still find comfort in lying down with them at night. These moments provide not only reassurance for them but also invaluable bonding time for me as a busy parent. I wouldn’t trade these fleeting instances of connection for anything.