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Anxious
"The terrified child fights against being put to bed. If the mother tears herself away, he may cry for hours. If she sits by the crib, he may lie down only as long as she sits still ... the safest advice,
but the hardest to carry out, is to sit by his crib in a relaxed way until he goes to sleep ... " -- Dr. Spock
We bathe Alex, wiggle him into a onesie, read him stories, get him water and tuck him in. But before we even get to the door he's on his feet, hands on the railing (BARS!) of the crib. Every word he's learned is
vanquished by the wrenching urgency of "Ehn ehn EHN!"
 We've heard you should go to him, not go to him, go to him and ignore him, bring him out and make him reel around until he pitches
down face-first like a drunk. If Jill and I try to watch a movie in the living room, Alex simply turns up his own volume and eventually dissolves into wailing as if he'd hit his head on the furniture. And he's loud: big bolts in a can,
the flood from a shattered dam, like the tearing call of a heart that's learned that there will never be another ride on the rocking horse.
"Jill-"
"Just ignore it."
"Jill-"
"How do you think it makes me feel to hear my first-born son wailing as if his heart is broken?"
"Jeff don't go in there!"
But I do. His cries melt to giggles. All's well. He even pretends to let me tuck him in again. Alex's calm is the calm of a fix, though, and I'm one step out of the door when he's trying to pull me back with
wails.
"Jill-"
"Jeff I am so mad at you for going in there!"
I'm going in armed with Spock, a missionary braving Darkest Toddlerhood with the Bible in one hand. In the other hand, I bring a flashlight, a notebook, a pen, and a book to read in slow moments. Not that there
are many before Alex goes to sleep.
I give Alex my T-shirt for the same reason we used to put articles of our clothing into the carrier before we took the cats to the vet. I take a seat in a relaxed way and decide to document Alex's slow,
ritualistic unwinding.
 9:30: Here we are. He looks at me. He's up. Up and up. Hands on bars. Ehn ehn ehn EHN! I stick my foot
through the bars near the mattress and he sits to study his toes and mine. Neither of us says anything. Will Alex hate me for this? Spock doesn't say.
9:35: He does the bear walk, on the forehead, onesided butt high behind. Sitting up. Staring. (He will hate me for this.) Picks at Bully. Chews his cannula. "Hmm," he says into the blanket. Pats
chest. Giggles. He seems to have forgotten I'm here.
9:40: More giggles. Slams his forehead into the blanket. Bolts up when he hears me flip the page of the notebook. Ehn ehn EHN EHN! I start to the bathroom and he wails as if mourning all those rocking horse
rides that will never be.
9:45: Eyes down. Hands creep across front of onesie. Notices he has five fingers. Blows a mild raspberry and finds that funny. Yawns (good sign?). Begins to tip. Catches self. Smiles. Wiggles toes. Shakes
head. Head tilted to left, studies blanket. Scratches at diaper. Says "brurrp brurrp." Waves good-bye (good sign?). Mad bear-walking. I bring him a drink of water. Huge smile. Revives. Dammit.
9:50: Ehn ehn EHN EHN! Flops back down. Pats blanket. Looks up at me and my notebook. Pulls lips. EHN EHN!
 9:55: Sits with a spring-shaking plop. Forehead to blanket. Rolls around. Digs his face into my
T-shirt. Bows, knees bent, hands over eyes. Praying? Rolls, settles on one side, claps. Stays on one side, eyes fluttering (good sign?). Not one of his livelier evenings.
10: Sprawls across two blankets. I put away notebook and pick up Spock and read: "This campaign may take weeks, but it should work in the end."
10:05: Is he out? I confirm by creeping to the door. No sound hits me in the back. Sleep conquers heartache for another night.
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