Death of the Bedtime Story

Amelia, though thoughtful and loving and sweet, is not a cuddler. She prefers not to be kissed, especially in public. Hugs are ok, but she is usually not the initiator, and you can bet they don't linger. She is often averse to snuggling; she has too many other things to do. It's just the way she is, and it's the way she always has been. As her mom I've learned to accept that, unlike her sister whose arms have to be pried regularly from around my neck with a tire iron, she gives and receives love in a different way than I do. Her need for intimacy is as real and profound as that of my other children, but the roots are further below the surface and require less traditional maintenance; I have to dig a little deeper in my parenting toolbox to facilitate closeness with her.

Early on, I discovered that one of the best ways to bond with Amelia is at night, through the ritual of reading bedtime stories. Day is done, teeth are brushed, rooms are clean, and for fifteen minutes and often times more, this child who never stops, who doesn't want to be cuddled, will listen quietly. If I get really lucky, I might get a head on my shoulder, or an arm around my waist, or a little leg draped over one of mine. It's our time, lost together in a world of Ramona Quimby, or Laura Ingalls, or James and his enormous peach.

But I fear those days are over. The training wheels are off. For good. Bedtime stories are still a before-sleep prerequisite, it's just that I have been factored out of the equation. She doesn't need me to read to her anymore because she can do it on her own, and rather proficiently, too. Like most things that Amelia has figured out how to do by herself, any involvement from me is now considered an insult. And I get that. But it doesn't mean I like it.

Because I don't.

The other night as Amelia lay in her bed, reading contentedly, and I sat, a little bit lost, on the couch in the living room, I had the realization that this was only the beginning of these kind of growing pains. There is a kind of push and pull in parenthood of wanting your children close to you, and at the same time fostering the kind of independence where they can navigate this crazy world successfully on their own. Autonomy is the pinnacle goal, after all. Really and truly, I love that she can read independently. I love that she wants to read, constantly. Some nights I even love the freedom that not having to read to her affords. But more than anything, I miss that little red head, buried against my chest, feeling the closeness of her breath, and knowing that she needs me.

She still needs me. Even if she doesn't always show it. But she needs me less and in different ways than she did yesterday, or last month, or three years ago. As we close the book on bedtime stories, I have confidence that we will, with some amount of trial and error, find a new, more "grown-up" way to tap in to that mother-daughter intimacy that we both crave. We have found it before, and I have to remember in the push and pull moments of motherhood when I feel like I am no longer needed, that what has been found is difficult to lose.

 She still needs me.

And  hopefully, with or without bedtime stories, she always will.