| brucekluger.com |
NickJr.com, September 2000 In the Trenches With Bruce Kluger Memories of a Lost Snuggle By Bruce Kluger Getting the kids to bed tonight was a back-breaker. Bridgette had already been quite the handful this evening —that special combination of antsy and whiny that comes from too much stimulation, too little sleep and a too-healthy dose of jellybeans at her godfather Guy’s house, where she’d spent the afternoon. Her 11-month-old sister, Audrey, meanwhile, had been wailing all day. Was she teething? Was it another cold? Is she actually the spawned seed of an evil alien race bent on taking over the earth? It all boiled over during a perfectly hellish pizza dinner, with Bridgey’s whines escalating, Audrey’s cries crescendoing, and The King and I on the VCR, which had been playing backbeat to the hysteria, suddenly becoming as grating as a bagpipe in the lobby of the New York Public Library. In one swift move, Alene snapped off the TV, took Bridgette’s hand and announced, “All right, everybody to bed”—and then to me: “You’ve got Audrey.” For the next hour, Alene and I did the usual routine, getting the kids washed and in their pajamas, then me carrying the baby around a darkened room, feeding her a bottle and trying to sing her to sleep, while, in the other room, Alene read Bridgey a few books. When the clock passed eight, however, it became clear that neither my wife nor I was having any luck with our assigned child, so we moved to phase two—as is our habit when the going gets tough—and switched kids. Meeting in the hallway between rooms, I handed the wide-eyed little one off to Alene (with a few choice words about selling her on eBay), then walked into Bridgette’s room, and hunkered down next to her bed for what I hoped would be one last tuck-in-and-goodnight. “But no one’s snuggling with me tonight,” Bridgette complained, a ploy she fully understands cuts to the gut. “But we can’t snuggle tonight, Bridgette,” I responded, not without a measure of guilt. “Audrey’s being very difficult and Mommy’s trying to get her to sleep; the kitchen and the living room are still a mess from dinner and I have to clean up. Everyone’s a little irritable, and we need you to help us by going to sleep.” Bridgette was silent. Finally, with her perfectly honed harumph, she popped her pacifier into her mouth, rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. I headed back to the kitchen, catching a glimpse of a light from beneath my bedroom door. Not a good sign. If the light was on, Audrey was showing no signs of sleep. Well, that’s Alene’s problem. I had just begun to unearth the pile of dishes in the sink when I sensed the presence of a 40-pounder behind me. Turning around, I saw Bridgette. “I’m moving out of this house to Brooklyn,” she managed to squeak out, before I took her hand and escorted her back to her bed—whereupon I reminded her that one more surprise visit from her meant no TV tomorrow. “But I’m not tired and no one snuggled with me,” she protested. “You’ll live,” I said, tucking her in once more, kissing her forehead and disappearing out the door. I successfully managed to get the dishes into the dishwasher, and just started sweeping up the pizza detritus from beneath Audrey’s high chair, when I heard that familiar little bellow: “D-a-a-a-addy...” In one fluid motion I was down the hall, into her room and kneeling beside her again. “Now what,” I said, not making the slightest effort to mask my irritation. “Nobody snuggled with me, and I’m not sleepy,” she repeated, her eyes barely able to stay open. “I know, Bridgette,” I said, “but you’re just going to have to try to sleep, and stop calling me. You’re driving me crazy.” “Then hold your ears and don’t listen to me,” she reasoned. Resisting a smile, I gave her back a taste of her own grown-up logic. “I can’t not hear you,” I said. “Besides, whenever I hear you cry it breaks my heart. Now will you please be quiet and go to sleep?” And as easy as that she said yes. She was out in less than five minutes. As I finished my chores in the kitchen I wondered what had made the difference. Did I guilt her back with the broken-heart bit? Did I just outlast her? Who knows? If parents tried to figure out every minor victory—or defeat—we’d never have time to breathe. At last the kitchen was clean, the floors were spotless, the lights were low and, from the silence our room, it appeared that Alene was having success with the tiny tornado, too. I picked up an errant sock in the hallway and tiptoed back into Bridgette’s room to toss it in her hamper. Linda Ronstadt was on the CD player, gently singing the Lennon/McCartney lullaby Goodnight. Looking over at Bridgette, I couldn’t help but notice how small and pretty she is. I sat on the edge of her bed and touched her hair. I leaned over to give her a goodnight kiss. Then I found myself lying down next to her, and giving her a gentle hug. “Hey, little one,” I whispered into her ear, hoping to rouse her. “It’s Daddy. I’ve come to snuggle.” She didn’t hear me, of course, then shifted in her sleep, her breathing low, the stillness of her long lashes showing all the signs of deep slumber. That snuggle is lost for good, I thought to myself. And for what? The price of a loaded dishwasher? The kind of peace and quiet of which I’ll have more than enough one day? Suddenly the sad reality of parenting became clear to me in the warm, dark safety of Bridgette’s room—namely, that our time with our children is as precious as moonlight, and just as fleeting. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I don’t realize there will be a million snuggles down the road; and that, sometimes, parenting requires sacrifices. But I can’t help but think of the day when Bridgette and Audrey live in other houses, perhaps with daughters of their own, and all those tangibles of being their daddy— the feel and smell and sound of it—will just be a memory. And I’ll be one snuggle short. |
Sleepless in Manhattan: Audrey (left) and Bridgette...awake.
