Bedtime exasperation: "I can't see!"

"Mom! I have to tell you something. I have to tell you something. I have to tell you something! I have to tell you something!! MOM, I HAVE TO TELL YOU SOMETHING!" Noelle's voice jams itself into my ears; her stubborn persistence wears me down as the anger wells up.

We had gone through the bedtime routine here at our visit to Grandma and Grandpa's house. Put on the footed Cinderella jammies. Brush (sorta) her teeth. Read a book. Read another book. Read the first book again. Okay--kisses for Grandma. Now upstairs to bed! So far, so okay. It feels like it's been a long day, but I think it's because Mark's not with us.

"Tell a story." I told two stories. We prayed. I told her I loved her. I put the blanket over the top of the pack & play to make her travel "fort." I said, "Night, night." And before I could even get out of the room--"No! WAIT! Mom! Tell the story Dora and Boots go to [Curious] George's house!" I took myself downstairs in spite of her plea. Really child, I love you but I want to be finished with you for today. Before I get very far she switched to needing to tell me something. Even downstairs I could hear her; down the curving wooden staircase, down the hall, past the glass-plate door; through the layers of 19th-century plaster. At this point, the fact that it's "somefing" and not "something" is not cute, but rather offensive. And I know that there's nothing to tell me. We've been through this before. She is masterful.

I mentioned earlier that I'm working to be kinder, gentler, less angry. I'm also working through my mother-in-law's admonition to "be firm, be consistent, be..." I don't remember the third one. Loving, I think. How do I do this? Especially when what I want to do is fly up the stairs, stomping, throw open the door and shriek. I permit myself a bit of stomping up the stairs (what I'm trying to accomplish besides dramatic effect here I don't know), open the door, and ...(deep breath--no shrieking, Katie) "What, Noelle? What do you want to tell me?"

Silence.

"Tell a story."

This exchange ultimately ended with her being re-tucked in. As I left the room again, she began with something new. "No! Mom! I can't see! I can't see in here! I can't see!" Oh no! Had she spontaneously suffered a detached retina or other blinding illness or injury? Perhaps I should stop and check? Wait. No, crazy woman. She's a masterful manipulator.

"Noelle, it's bedtime. You're not supposed to see." There is a light on in the adjoining room, and the door is partially opened. It is not pitch-dark in there. "I can't see! I can't see!"

I had to leave. She eventually went to sleep.

I often wonder to what extent my interactions with my kids mirror my interactions with the Lord. Having striven with me (sometimes happily, sometimes not) all day, the Lord puts me in the place where He wants me to rest. I babble, I resist, I shriek, I ask to be told another story instead of being satisfied with the three He already told me for the occasion. I want to feel close to Him even if I'm not really doing what He wants. I fret, I moan...and even though maybe He comes and gives me a hug and tells me one more story just to reassure me, I begin to wail--"I can't see!" I want Him to not leave me in the dark, even though He knows that what I need is to be resting in the dark, and anyway the light is on in the next room. And largely, God is gentle--doesn't bellow, doesn't stomp up the stairs; doesn't have the same petty reaction to me that I sometimes have to my daughter.

I'm thankful that God's patience with me is so long; His love for me so strong; His choices concerning what I need and when never wrong. Would that my parenting and my life be more like His.