Going the F to sleep: The many stages of bedtime

"Mommy's here," Eli announces.

It's 7:30 p.m. -- hallelujah time, or, as Eli knows it by its kinder, gentler nickname, "night-night time" -- and I've just deposited Eli in his crib after reading Tubby four times in rapid succession. ("Rapid" because the third or fourth read-through seems to become about turning the pages as quickly as possible to reach Eli's favorite pages, which we then rapturize over at great length.)

His hair is still damp from his own tubby and his cheeks have that unmistakable glow that only comes from being freshly scrubbed of tomato sauce and hummus (we like to enjoy eclectic dinners that can be smeared most efficiently across our faces). All that's left to do is recite I'll See You in the Morning -- the same book I've read to Eli every night at bedtime since he was born -- sing the Hashkiveinu and the Sh'ma and say a final good night.

Eli rolls over, yanks his pacifier to the side so I'll be able to hear him more clearly and informs me again, "Mommy's here."

I smile lovingly. "Mommy's here," I agree, and then I pause before barreling onward hopefully: "But Mommy's going to say night-night and then Mommy is going to open the door and go into the living room and Eli is going to go to sleep!"

Eli flashes a duh smile. "Mommy's here," he repeats helpfully.

By the time Eli was just a few weeks old, I was an expert in what everyone advised to do about baby sleep in every corner of the Internet, and I was determined to foster healthy sleeping habits from the get-go.

I bet you think this is where I'm going to tell you that I ate my words and learned an important lesson about the best-laid plans of parenthood, but for the most part, my plan worked. I never rocked or cuddled or nursed Eli to sleep. I did the same bedtime routine in the same order every single night, put him in his crib awake, and then left. (And then obsessively watched the baby monitor for hours, but that's a different story.)

Being such an expert on baby sleep, of course, I was well-informed about the infamous series of sleep regressions that would befall us, and we withstood them all: the one where your kid wakes up screaming every 40 minutes, the one where your kid cries when you try to leave the room at bedtime, the other one where your kid wakes up screaming every 40 minutes.

Compounding the issue of separation anxiety is when your child learns the correct usage of "Mommy" and "Daddy": as a weapon. It's one thing to ignore a crying baby when said baby is virtually a stranger in your house, the kind of crying you can pass off as, "Oh dear, that crying is certainly distressing." It's another thing when there's a little person who manages with his last ounce of strength on Earth to pull himself up to his feet and howl "Mommmmmmmyyyyyyyyy!" It's like being plucked out of a police lineup by a witness: That baby knows exactly who you are and where you live (and where you live is on the couch trying to watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey).

At one point during one of these sleep regressions I remember fervently wishing that I had the power to Apparate (you know, Dumbledore-style) out of Eli's room back into the living room so that the sound of me trying to sneak out of his bedroom at night wouldn't wake him up. (Although now that I think about it, only really advanced wizards can Apparate without causing a loud crack, the sound of which would probably be noisier than the floor creaks I already make. But I digress. For nerdiness.) At another point I came to the realization that possibly our sleep problems would be solved if I had a life-sized cardboard cutout of myself that I could prop up in Eli's room at bedtime, Home Alone-style, to convince him that I was still there.

All of which is to say: This is where I ate my words and learned an important lesson about the best-laid plans of parenthood, and also that the second you pat yourself on the back for something you did as a parent, karma is coming for you in a big way.

Bedtime these days is a total tossup. Some nights I can say good night and leave the room without hearing a whisper of protest. Some nights (the sweetest nights ever) I literally watch him drift off to sleep as I finish my song. Some nights I creep closer to the door, ever so slowly, freedom inches from my grasp, until Eli gets tired of checking to make sure I'm still there. Some nights I sit on the floor or in his armchair until he falls asleep (and then an extra 15 minutes for good measure so I don't wake him up as I leave). Some nights I leave the room and endure a minute or two of wailing before he passes out. And some nights, no matter what we try, we seem destined to get caught in a cycle of sneaking out, waking up and crying.

This is bedtime in a nutshell: You think you will epitomize motherhood and be a warm, comforting presence to soothe your child as he settles into sleep, and then it's 20 minutes later and your ass has fallen asleep and you really, really need to go pee and take your bra off.

On this night, Eli is pretty clear about his wishes. Mommy isn't in the living room, or snacking in the kitchen before dinner. Mommy. Is. Here.

Learning how to talk is a game-changer. It starts with simple labeling ("Car! Truck! Bus!"), progresses to increasingly more complicated demands (it used to be "more"; now it's "I want green lollipop"), and sometimes breaks your heart: When I bring Eli to school in the mornings, he clings to my hand and whimpers a mantra: "Mommy's coming. Daddy pick up-up. Mommy's coming. Mommy's here."

So I know that at bedtime, "Mommy's here" doesn't mean "Mommy, you are physically present in my room right now!" It means "Mommy, your presence is a comfort to me even though throughout the evening I may have been hitting at you and screaming in your face and forcefully denying all your requests for hugs, and I would like to request that you continue to stand there staring at me all night long."

Tonight I decide to go for the sneaking-toward-the-door method. Eli shifts around restlessly, clutching a red wooden car in one hand and a pair of his own shorts in the other. (Yup.) "Mommy's here," I assure him each time I take a tiny step closer to the door. "Mommy's here."

Once I reach the threshold, I literally stand in the doorway for a while. My eyes are facing the living room -- the couch! The DVR! The dinner table! -- but my backside is still hanging out in Eli's room. I take a few tentative steps away from the door, popping my head back in when Eli stirs. "Mommy's here."

At last, all is quiet. I breathe deeply and head for a well-deserved shower. I'm pretty pleased with myself: I have successfully dispatched my toddler to bed at a reasonable hour without any crying. He can sleep peacefully assured of my presence, knowing that I will always be there for him in times of distress, that I am always looking out for him even as he sleeps.

But you remember what happens when you pat yourself on the back for something you did as a parent, right?

I hear the piercing wail the second I step out of the shower. DAMN IT WHAT HAPPENED TO SLEEPING PEACEFULLY ASSURED OF MY -- clearly the shower was a rookie mistake. I grab a towel and hurry through the living room.

Peering into Eli's room, I see him sprawled on his belly in his crib, his eyes closed, his pacifier working busily in his mouth.

Mommy's not here after all. But when you've got a daddy who will lay on the floor for you, who needs her?