A sleep over used to be the crown jewel in the birthday party court with a bowling party, roller skating party, and ice cream sundae making at ZIPZ, a local ice cream chain, ranking pretty high up there as well. I believe I went to my first in 4th grade as a nine to ten year old (DOUBLE DIGITS!) celebration. Sleeping over involved so many things, milestones, and were exceptional events. Girls got giddy with excitement thinking about staying up late with their girlfriends, eating lots of junk food all at once, usually with pizza for dinner as a starter and rolling quickly downhill to peanut M&Ms and Doritos as the cramming-to-stay-up-past-1 am treat. There was lots of dancing, shouting, singing, and crib games. Secrets told under the sleeping bags about boys kissed or wished for, bust-enlarging exercises ("We must! We must! We must increase our bust!") though more for play than actually hoping on my part. Even then I knew that the parents who hosted these parties were gods, better than mere mortals, because no way on Earth my parents were going to have a bunch of wild-assed banshees over at ours mucking up the place and acting a fool. (We did actually have one sleepover party and my parents/mom handled it for realz.)
This weekend Lily has two sleepovers. She is seven years old and I forced her to take a nap after gymnastics this afternoon so she would make it to the second without acting like a monkey. She didn't want to nap, almost burst into tears at the suggestion which is how I knew she needed to take a nap (that and the confession of a 12:13 am lights out). She moved all over the room, trying to read and rainbow loom, playing with her hair, and trying to make shadow puppets, when I forced her to climb up on the bed next to her sleeping sister (I'll get to that in a minute). I lay down behind her with a soft, fuzzy blanket over us and squeezed her little body and pet her hair. She was out in two minutes. Glad to see that technique from her toddlerhood still works nicely. It is Saturday afternoon at 3:30 pm and my entire family is napping in preparation for the sleepover that follows the sleepover.
The parents of both of Lily's sleepover pals are good friends, people I trust and know well. When she leaves me to be with them, I don't give her safety another thought. I am confident, comfortable, and thankful. Lily gets to relax a little from Mommy's strict rules and have a little space from her baby sister's crawling up her back. She gets to feel like a teenager...oh, wait. Well, she thinks she does. She feels punk rock and I want her to.
Virginie and her best girl are prepping for a sleepover of their own. Not quite a sleepover as they are both 4 1/2 years old and I believe that that is just too early for a sleepover. (I was happy to confirm that her pal's mother was completely in agreement and "on principle" could not permit her baby to stay the night and eat whipped crème from the spray can into her mouth...another time.) They will wear pajamas and get to play and stay up late and lie down in a little bed and watch movies, read bedtime stories and then, later than usual, Mommy will come and pick up her worn out princess and both 4 1/2 year olds will get to sleep in their own beds. Kind of like a regular play date for these two just later.
Lily went to her first sleepover when she was six years old and I cried almost the entire time. I did it in silence, not wanting her or her little sister to see that I was just freaked out beyond what was necessary. I knew my anxiety was getting the best of me, thoughts of kidnappings and hazings weaving through my brain threatening my sleep and my ability to breathe. Then I realized that the parents who hosted were as conscientious as I, nervous about having all these wiggly girls in their care, and basically planned to stay up all night dealing with the pre-tween set and their totally bizarre humor and girl power chants. I love a girl Lord of the Flies, except for the killing at the end. Love girl power and energy and pride. Just not sure I am totes ready for it at mine.
Baby steps. Two 4 1/2 year olds bugging out in their PJ's? Into it. I am thinking of cool stuff for them to do. Fort building, coloring, playing with Barbies, Monster Highs, and Little Ponies. Lily will be off on her own with her best girl and her cool ass parents living it up, feeling that freedom, knowing that she can come home to Mommy who will take care of her and put her to bed by wrapping her legs around her and boa-constricting her to sleep. What was once the prize of upper elementary school party time is now a common occurrence, a fun escape from home, a break in the crazy cycle of this aggressively structured childhood. But they can always come home to Mommy after their little adventures and regal me with dirty-haired, unbrushed-teeth, late-night tales and antics that in the retelling are surely (surely?) wilder than they were when they really happened...on run of the mill, rollin' with the homies-sleepover.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Showing posts with label bedtime stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bedtime stories. Show all posts
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Story time
I have spent the entire summer with my girls. Their father is working full time, often six days a week, and we decided long ago, after the years in Barbados had me traipsing from Miami to Bim with the girls and all kinds of stuff alone (A-LONE), that we should take trips together from here forward. We have had an epic Mommy Camp summer with more iPad and less study binder than I'd hoped for but also gardening and visiting and swimming and playing and talking. I know that we will all look back on these dog days with joy and easy smiles. At present it can be rather tough.
When we get ready for bed at night, I try to have a pile of library books on hand. Because I have a new efficient and excited reader, we often get through the stack before I expected we would and find ourselves with time. I turn off the lights in their room and we stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars around the room, listen to the hamsters running amok, and hear ourselves breathing. These past few nights, the girls have started asking for "stories that come from my mouth" instead of books. How did they know they had the right mommy?
I can spin a yarn, tell a tale, work some magic. But with the stories that I tell my girls, there is something more. The tales are not tall. Have no wizards and fairies. They are instead, opportunities I have taken to impart feelings of self-worth, relevance, value, intuition, connection, and divinity within. In the last story I told last night there were three sisters. The first sister wanted to see the world and put on her backpack and hiking boots, took a map, and a tent and went off to see what nature had to offer. She walked through the jungle, climbed mountains, scaled walls, drank from clear rivers, and watched herds of animals as they interacted with one another. The second sister wanted to see the world and all that man had made, so she packed up her fancy suitcases, beautiful clothes and traveled to the world's best cities. She ate delicious food, stayed in amazing hotel suites, looked at art, listened to live music, saw live theatre, and was inspired by architecture and the built world. The third sister stayed behind. She crossed her legs and sat in meditation. She did yoga. She searched for the invisible string that connected her heart to all the hearts in the world. She concentrated on love and light, opened herself to being compassionate and available to all people and all things. She listened and watched and learned so that she could understand people and what made them do the things they did.
Before I could finish my story, my four year old called out, "I'm like her! I'm like her! The third girl is me."
I asked, "Are you sure? You don't want to travel the world and see those beautiful things?"
To which she replied, "She already knows those beautiful things. They are in her heart."
As I finished my story with the return of the two sisters to home where they regaled each other with wild tales and stories of impressive sights and sites, I closed with "all three found their way to the truth about the marvel of all things." Both girls lay quietly, slowly breathing, eyes blinking to close. I kissed them both on their foreheads and slithered out of the bed.
Each night there is a story like this. Each night I heal the wound, the emptiness, the hurt and longing of my nights in my bedroom alone. Each night I hope they do not feel those same fears. I have no idea if these stories will be important, if they will stick in their minds, rest gently in their psyches to be recalled when compassion, love, connection, empathy need to be called up. But in the darkness, after a long, arduous day spent in the company of chatty, little babes, I hope I am giving them stories that will take root in their minds and in their hearts when they no longer want to snuggle up to me and be told stories "from my mouth."
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
When we get ready for bed at night, I try to have a pile of library books on hand. Because I have a new efficient and excited reader, we often get through the stack before I expected we would and find ourselves with time. I turn off the lights in their room and we stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars around the room, listen to the hamsters running amok, and hear ourselves breathing. These past few nights, the girls have started asking for "stories that come from my mouth" instead of books. How did they know they had the right mommy?
I can spin a yarn, tell a tale, work some magic. But with the stories that I tell my girls, there is something more. The tales are not tall. Have no wizards and fairies. They are instead, opportunities I have taken to impart feelings of self-worth, relevance, value, intuition, connection, and divinity within. In the last story I told last night there were three sisters. The first sister wanted to see the world and put on her backpack and hiking boots, took a map, and a tent and went off to see what nature had to offer. She walked through the jungle, climbed mountains, scaled walls, drank from clear rivers, and watched herds of animals as they interacted with one another. The second sister wanted to see the world and all that man had made, so she packed up her fancy suitcases, beautiful clothes and traveled to the world's best cities. She ate delicious food, stayed in amazing hotel suites, looked at art, listened to live music, saw live theatre, and was inspired by architecture and the built world. The third sister stayed behind. She crossed her legs and sat in meditation. She did yoga. She searched for the invisible string that connected her heart to all the hearts in the world. She concentrated on love and light, opened herself to being compassionate and available to all people and all things. She listened and watched and learned so that she could understand people and what made them do the things they did.
Before I could finish my story, my four year old called out, "I'm like her! I'm like her! The third girl is me."
I asked, "Are you sure? You don't want to travel the world and see those beautiful things?"
To which she replied, "She already knows those beautiful things. They are in her heart."
As I finished my story with the return of the two sisters to home where they regaled each other with wild tales and stories of impressive sights and sites, I closed with "all three found their way to the truth about the marvel of all things." Both girls lay quietly, slowly breathing, eyes blinking to close. I kissed them both on their foreheads and slithered out of the bed.
Each night there is a story like this. Each night I heal the wound, the emptiness, the hurt and longing of my nights in my bedroom alone. Each night I hope they do not feel those same fears. I have no idea if these stories will be important, if they will stick in their minds, rest gently in their psyches to be recalled when compassion, love, connection, empathy need to be called up. But in the darkness, after a long, arduous day spent in the company of chatty, little babes, I hope I am giving them stories that will take root in their minds and in their hearts when they no longer want to snuggle up to me and be told stories "from my mouth."
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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