She's sleeping as I write this. But she wasn't last night. I’m not sure what first triggered it, but recently Ivy has been
waking up in the middle of the night with bad dreams. Last night, for the first
time in as long as I can remember, Rachael heard her cries before me. She took the first shift. Ivy wasn’t quiet long before the tears started again and I had a chance
to redeem myself. I popped up and stumbled into her bedroom.
“I’m afraid, Daddy.” She says over and over again until I reach her.
We pray together,
and I’m surprised to hear her use complete sentences and better grammar than
I’ve heard in earlier prayers and this at 1:30 a.m. Not bad. Her tears and
cries return, and they are the real thing.
She wails: “I’m afraid.” Then,
standing, clutching at three stuffed animals, she asks: “Can I sleep with you,
daddy?” In a former time, I may have relented at such a heart-rending request.
But even in my midnight stupor, I know that kids in bed with parents does not
a good long-term solution make.
“No honey,” I say. And the tears begin afresh.
“I’m afraid, Daddy.”
“What are you afraid of, sweetheart?”
“Scary monsters,” she says choking back sobs.
The other two who share a bedroom with her are awake now.
Not that I expected to find them sleeping after Ivy’s siren-like outbursts, but
I can detect the tell-tale signs. The steady breathing is missing. They shift
subtly now and then. There was a time when the mere threat of waking slumbering
siblings would have nearly unhinged me, but I am mellowing. That realization
comforts me.
“I don’t want to sleep alone.” She continues.
Half-kneeling, half prostrate against the edge of her
trundle, I begin singing “I Am A Child of God.” Ivy, the caboose of our five
children, has a predilection for music. She can pick out a tune and retain it
after hearing a song one time through. Music also sooths her more than it has
our other children. Part way into the verse, she settles down. I sing all three
verses partly for her, partly for me, and partly for the other two. Then, I
crawl over her now relaxed form and lay beside her on top of her covers. I’m
chilled, but the cool air feels good after the warmth of my bed.
Due to the lack of space and the preponderance of children
in the middle bedroom, Rachael arranged Ivy’s trundle perpendicular to Grace’s
bed above it. This way, the kids can hoard their toys and we can amass
quantities of food storage under the now-vacant lower half of Grace’s bed.
Additionally, because Ivy—almost Grace’s height—is still quite small, we can leave the
trundle partially and permanently extending at right angles into the room from underneath the upper half of Grace’s bed. It also means that, lying next to Ivy,
my knees nearly touch my ears.
Between the cool air from the window above and the
contortions I’m forced to assume to fit beside Ivy, I know I will not sleep
here. Fortunately, Ivy will. A few minutes pass and a soft rhythmic breathing
issues from the bundle beside me. About the time I plan to stand up and
return to my room, Carver suddenly, and without warning, springs from his bed.
Without saying a word, he stumbles, jerky like, over to the edge of Ivy’s
trundle. He towers groggily above us and I half expect him to collapse on top
of us. He stops, wobbling still, and looks down to verify (I assume) that I am
in Ivy’s bed. Confirming my presence, without a word, he totters back to his
own bed.
“That’s my cue,” I think. After waiting for another minute
or two to ensure that Ivy truly sleeps, I crawl out of the trundle, kiss Ivy on
the cheek, touch Carver’s head gently on the way out, and navigate the darkened
rooms back to my bed. Before slipping in next to Rachael, I kneel and pray that
Ivy will feel comfort. It occurs to me that she’s right to be afraid of
monsters. I consider myself an optimist, but there’s no denying a fair number
of monsters inhabit this world. I trust that my Father watches over this
family.
As I rise from my knees, I think: “How would I capture this
experience if I were Michael Perry.” The words, the phrases, and thoughtful
forms of expression all come easily to mind right now at a quarter to 2:00 a.m.
“It won’t be so easy tomorrow morning,” I realize as Rachael sighs gently, I
shift a few times and remember nothing else until 5:00 a.m.
