Making Space
By Laura Rennie
@laurarennie_
My earplugs have expanded to tune me out of the world, and a tiny bit of drool escapes the corner of my mouth. My book is shut, my phone silenced, and—most miraculously of all—my brain is turned off. I’ve waited all day for this moment, this final escape from the duties of the day.
Sleep, at long last.
But it wasn’t meant to be. I sense her shadow and feel a resigned sigh reverberate in every fiber in my being.
I push my eye mask up and blink, adjusting my eyes to place her body in the dark. “I can’t sleep,” she whimpers.
I want to scream, “GO BACK TO BED!” I want to return to the lovely dream I was having. I want to slide my eye mask back down over my face and clock out.
I want to have something that is mine.
But then I remember my smaller self, the one who crept into her parent’s bedroom at night.
***
Picture a soldier in a movie wearing night-vision goggles to track signs of the enemy. That was me, trying to make it across the desert floor of my parent’s bedroom to find refuge in the arms of my mother. Not that my dad was the enemy, exactly. He was (and is) as close to perfect as dads can get. But he wasn’t the parent I wanted when I had a bad dream or simply couldn’t fall asleep.
Ask either of my siblings and they’ll say the same thing: we all prayed we could get past dad.
I knew it was over the second my foot touched a tender spot on the floorboards. Dad would squint his eyes and beckon me towards him, and I’d go, dragging my feet and cursing my bad luck. Then he’d do one of two things (and I’m not sure which was worse).
He might scoot over maybe six inches and pull me up, pinning me with his leg to keep me from falling off the edge of the four-poster bed. It’s impossible to sleep when you’re terrified of falling to your death if you so much as breathe. The dead weight of his hairy leg was more annoying than assuring.
Or, he would heave himself out of bed, his white cotton briefs lighting the way back to my room. He’d climb under my twin comforter, settle himself on more than a fair share of my pillow, and pull out his classic trick. His short meditative bedtime stories that were so boring he put himself to sleep.
“Imagine you’re at a circus, and someone hands you a balloon,” he’d begin. “You let go, and watch as it drifts away ... up, up, up in the sky …” Two minutes into the story and he’s out cold, snoring so loud I’d worry the walls would cave in. At least that story was slightly better than his other, more succinct sleep prompt. “Imagine your mind is a blank sheet of paper,” he’d say, right before turning his head and conking out.
In either scenario, I was left with only one option—surrender. Filled with both exasperation and affection, I would nudge him awake again, letting him know that I was all right to sleep alone in my bed.
It occurs to me now that the beckon of dad’s hand was an act of selflessness. Put my dad anywhere, any time of day, and he can start snoozing if he puts his mind to it. Mom, however, would lie awake for hours if her sleep was interrupted. Dad was giving her a grand gesture of love, one my mother would never know because she was still dreaming. The gift of sleep.
Unless that is, I somehow made it past dad in the night. Some sensations are so strong you can feel them decades later as though they’ve burned a memory into your being. The relief at reaching mom’s bedside was like no other. Her body was soft and warm, and she created so much space on the bed for me that I wondered for years at the magic of it. She would reach over my body and turn her bedside lamp on to the dimmest setting, signaling that she was ready to join me in the world of sleeplessness.
Next to mom, everything in my world seemed right again. I could stay for as long as I wanted, nestled in her arms. I would slide the inside my foot up and down her calves, relishing in their cool smoothness. We took turns scratching messages on one another’s back, giggling as we decoded everything from I love you to poop.
The truth is, as much as I preferred mom, both sides of my parent’s bed were safe places to land in the middle of the night. Neither one dismissed my fears, scolded me, or showed resentment at being woken up. Instead, I was pulled close, given space.
What thoughts ran through their heads when their slumber was disturbed? Did I reach their bedside right as they were drifting off to sleep? Had they laid there not long before, comparing notes on the day? Did they kiss goodnight, then turn on their pillow and stare at the ceiling, wondering if they were doing a good job?
Or is that just me?
I’m embarrassed by my daily struggle to shake off my selfishness. I want time to read, to write, to sit still with my thoughts. I want space in my schedule, space in my brain. I want quiet.
Am I resenting this too much, I wonder? Am I appreciating this enough?
I fear my time to get it right is running out. I’m only four years into motherhood, so go ahead and pause to laugh. But I see the way time is moving faster and faster. I see the streaks of silver in my thirty-something hair and the pile of already outgrown toddler shoes to be donated.
I feel as though I could blink and suddenly be fully gray, watching my daughter graduate, and wishing I could go back and do things differently.
I would spend less time drawing lines in the sand, and more time making sandcastles.
***
I look at the little girl before me, and I remember my smaller self.
I remember my father, the sound of his snoring in my ear. I remember my mother, the flutter of her eyelashes against my cheek.
I reach out my hand to pull her close, feeling her settle into the space beside me. I slide my fingertips up her cool, small back, and begin to trace.
Later, someday, I will sleep.
Guest essay written by Laura Rennie. Laura lives in Maryland with her husband and daughter and works part-time as the editorial manager for a travel magazine. She loves reading, family walks, and the show “Top Chef.” She is the queen of finding the perfect gif (which she refuses to pronounce correctly). You can check out what she’s reading, cooking, and writing on Instagram.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.