On the sacred quiet of being unneeded for a while
Bedtime always turns into a negotiation. It's the same dance, every night.
Holden says he’s thirsty. Then he asks if he can go on his tablet, watch YouTube, finish just one more round of his game. “Just a few minutes,” he says, and somehow, I always agree.
And even then, even after his five more stolen minutes, he resists sleep with all the determination of someone who believes he’s missing out on life by closing his eyes. But when he finally gives in, it’s instant, soft snores drifting through the room. If I look close enough, I can see his thumb still tucked in his mouth, his small hand gripping the corner of his yellow blanket.
There’s a quiet peace in that surrender... his, then mine. The noise settles, the air steadies, and the night finally stretches wide enough for both of us to rest.
When the boys finally go quiet, the house exhales. The lights dim, the noise dissolves, and everything softens. My brain knows I should follow them to bed, but I never do.
Because this — the stillness after the storm — is the only time that’s mine. No one asking, no one needing. Just me, the hum of the house, and the quiet I crave all day long.
So I stay up too late. I read a few pages, scroll through stupid videos, eat snacks I don’t need. I waste time, deliberately and deliciously. Because I haven’t done nothing all day, and I need to.
That’s the real bedtime bargain: he buys a few more minutes of childhood, and I trade a few hours of sleep for the illusion of freedom. We’re both holding onto something fleeting: him to the wonder of being small, me to remembering who I am when no one needs me.
Maybe that’s what rest really looks like in this season: not sleep, but stillness. Not escape, but a few stolen minutes where I finally belong only to me.
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