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Joshua

At times, I feel I have two sons, not one.

My older son is my husband.

He--Marc--doesn't get much time with the baby during the day, so at bedtime, he is hungry for fun. I want to wind down; Marc wants to tickle the baby. I want to sing soft lullabies; Marc wants to give high-decibel renditions of "Seventy-Six Trombones."

For a long while, I could read a book while my baby slowly grew tired. I believed that the deep calm in my soul was somehow flowing out of me and into my baby, who would then fall asleep on his own.

Those days are over. My son has discovered that I still exist behind the book, even when the book is blocking a direct line of view. So, as I try to read my gruesome mystery, my son slowly cranes his neck until he is peering at me around the corner of the hardcover; my son has a look of undiluted self-delight. He does not grow bored with this game.

My husband learned the game, and now he does it, too; sometimes, I have an infant peering around one corner and a grown man peering around yet another.

There's a website I found that has advice for the final minutes before bedtime. The site suggests that GO TO SLEEP might be too intimidating. Instead, how about something gentler? Just coo. Just say: Sleepy time for baby. We love you. Nighty night.

I have tried this, and it only causes my baby to giggle. It also causes my husband to giggle; "I'm sure he just needs to hear that sentence one more time," says my husband, with a jack-o-lantern grin.

It's amazing to me that--somehow--night after night--my child does indeed fall asleep. My husband, as well.

I write this for many unsung heroes throughout the country, who manage bedtime regularly, and manage it well, and also do some cooking and poop-scooping and storytime here and there. Happy (late) Mother's Day; Happy Father's Day. "I see you." Carry on.
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