When my first granddaughter was about 4 years old, she developed a need to be reassured about her dreams at night. Her mother came up with a “bad dreams” song. When it was time for Imani to go to sleep, Lisa would sit on the bed beside her and softly sing a song: “Bad dreams, bad dreams, go away. Good dreams, good dreams, here to stay.” When I fact-checked this bit of mother-daughter interplay, Imani — now 14 years old — added sounds to the story. She and her mother would growl after the phrase “bad dreams,” and make happy sounds after “good dreams.” When her brother, who is four years older, was about that age, I sat with him while his parents enjoyed a night out. He climbed from the bed where he was to be sleeping and came into the front room where I was lying on the sofa. He presented big “baby eyes” to me, and in a small, plaintive voice asked me, “Cool Papa: Would you rub my back?” I had not been apprised of this bedtime ritual before his parents set off into the night.
When my two youngest children spent time with me in St Louis Missouri, our bedtime ritual was for me to tell them a story as they lay in bed. I told them “Chicken Stories” that I invented each night. The giant chickens would have brief but fantastic adventures that always ended well. I never repeated a story until one night my son asked me to “tell the story of the Rainbow Chicken again.” (I faked the beginning and my son filled in the gaps in my memory.)
For children, the ritual of going to sleep is one of separation. This separation from the parents and the day becomes more difficult as the child’s imagination grows and they become more aware of the darkness. No matter how comfortable the bed, or how secure the relationship with the parents in the daytime, the night brings mysteries, and fears leach into the blanket of love. And my youngest granddaughter, when we were roommates, developed that fear of the night.
When I was Myah’s daytime caregiver, I would prepare for her afternoon nap by turning off the lights in her room. As we played about the living room and hallway, she would notice the darkness in her room. “It’s time for night-night?” she would ask. “Soon, baby,” I would reply, and we would play away until I could gently lead her toward her darkened room. She had a small TV with a timer, and I would give her a non-spilling cup with her favorite beverage and set the timer on the TV to turn it off after a short time. At some point in her aging (she is now 5 years old) she developed a fear of the “bad wolf.”
“Bad Wolf’s in my room, Clop!” At first, I was dismissive of the idea of the wolf; later, I would take her hand, we would slowly approach her door and I would bark into the dark: “Go ‘way, bad wolf!” This satisfied Myah, and in her bed, I would rub her back, and she would slip safely into sleep. Coming soon, is the “Bad Wolf” song. “Bad Wolf’s in my room, said Myah, but Clop said ‘No, no, no!’ But Bad Wolf’s there, and I’m so scared, please make the Bad Wolf go!”
Our job is not to disabuse our children of the notion that their fears are unfounded. Just make those fears go away, either by singing the “Bad Dreams” song, or bellowing, “Go ‘way, bad wolf!”
cjon3acd@att.net