My Sister Said Just Put a Mattress on Your Floor

My sister Hannah told me on the phone Sunday that I should put a mattress on the floor on my side of the bed and be done with it. "Everybody sleeps, Melissa. You're making it a project." She's a nurse and has seen people sleep in worse places, so I took it as a fair point and spent most of Monday arguing with it in my head while we were on the last canyon hike of the summer.

She's half right, though, and I'll say which half further down. Lily is eight and has been appearing at my side of the bed at some point after midnight since school started. Ben is two and doesn't walk in. He calls "Mama" over the monitor in a voice that goes up at the end, and I go to him. So I've got two kids showing up at 2 a.m. by different roads, and the same tired woman has to meet both.

Is it the dark or is it bedtime?

I assumed it was the dark, so I bought Lily a flashlight, one of those monster-slayer things you hand a child so she feels in charge. She held it politely and never touched it again. It felt like a toy for a smaller girl, which I should have guessed.

On the hike, with Ben up ahead on David's shoulders and nobody looking at anybody, I asked her what the scary part was. She said it wasn't her room. Her room is fine, she said. It's the hallway, the part between her door and ours where "nothing belongs to anybody." I've thought about that sentence every night since. A daytime question on a trail got me three weeks of bedtime questions asked in the dark by a mother who wanted to get back to sleep.

The research I read this week says the same thing, more or less: talk about fears in daylight when the child can think, and don't try to settle them in the moment. That matches what I saw. It doesn't match what I did the first week, which was tell her there was nothing to be afraid of. I taught third grade for five years and I knew better, and she stopped telling me anything for two nights. Flat reassurance teaches a child that the fear is a mistake to hide, and she's smart enough to hide it.

What we do now at 2 a.m.

The half of Hannah's idea I disagree with is the floor itself, so here's why. A mattress on my floor would work tomorrow and I'd probably be fine with it for a month, but Lily's trouble is a hallway and a mattress just moves her out of it. I'd rather she learn the hallway can be crossed. Hannah may be right that I'm making a project of it, and I'm okay with that since this one has an end.

The rules we've settled on are small and fit on a sticky note. A plug-in light goes in the hallway, not just her room. She's allowed to come to my side of the bed once a night, stand there and whisper "Mom" until I wake up, and I walk her back. I don't carry her. I walk beside her with my hand on her shoulder, which is a different thing from being led. At her door I say two sentences and tuck the blanket and leave. On a bad night I sit on the floor by her bed for ten minutes with my back against the dresser, and then I get up and go.

Ben's version is shorter because he's two and doesn't need a policy.

I pick him up and rub his back and say the same two sentences, then put him down again while Biscuit sleeps on under the crib through all of it.

What I say about prayer at that hour

At 2 a.m. I don't pray with her the way we do at 8:15, because nobody's mind works well at that hour and a long prayer turns the hallway into an event. What I say is a whisper, one sentence for her and one for me. Something like, "Heavenly Father, Lily's scared and I'm right here, please help her sleep." Then I stop. If she wants to add something, she can, though she usually doesn't.

I used to reach for scripture at that hour, and I wrote about one attempt, reciting Psalm 23 by the night light, which got me a better question than I could answer. Now I save the verses for daytime. I was also tempted to say 2 Timothy 1:7 to her, "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." I don't say it to a scared eight-year-old, because to her it can sound like being told she's doing it wrong. It's a good verse for me to read on a morning when I'm the one who's afraid.

The one I do use, at breakfast and never in the dark, is this:

Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings, and he will direct thee for good; yea, when thou liest down at night lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep; and when thou risest in the morning let thy heart be full of thanks unto God

Alma 37:37

She likes that it names both a night and a morning. The night-before-school blessing is the same idea done at a decent hour with a lamp on.

Prayer doesn't replace the light or the walk down the hall or the daytime talk. It's one of four things we do, and I'd be wary of any plan that uses it as the only one.

When it stops being a phase

If a child is losing real sleep for weeks, panicking and screaming instead of just worrying, or dragging through school days, call the pediatrician. They can check for things like reflux or sleep apnea, and they can point you to someone who works with kids on exactly this. We aren't there, and I'd still rather you ask early than wait out a year of nights.

Frequently Asked Questions

Why is my child suddenly afraid of the dark?

Nighttime fears are common between about two and twelve, and they often spike when something changes, like a new school year or a movie that was a little too much. Ours showed up the week school started. Look for the change before you look for the monster.

Should I let my scared child sleep in my room?

Once in a while, on a rough night, sure, and I won't think less of you. As the plan, I wouldn't, since it tells a child her own room is a place she can't manage. If you do it, decide it ahead of time so it's your choice and not something that happens to you at 2 a.m.

Can prayer really help a child sleep?

It can give a worried kid something to do with the worry, and that matters. Keep it short in the middle of the night and save the teaching for daylight. I wouldn't ask it to do the whole job.

What if my toddler and my older child are both up?

Take whoever is loudest first and tell the other one you'll be right there, then actually come. Mine have never once waited the full two minutes, but they've both learned I do show up.

Tonight I'm putting the plug-in light in the hallway before Caleb's practice is even over, and tomorrow at breakfast I'll tell Lily the new rules over cereal, in daylight, with her hallway sentence written down so she can see I took it seriously.

with love, Melissa