the door.
a long time ago, when evy was a new baby and my life was diapers and depression, we had a door to our upstairs. the door had a lock on the outside. it was like that when we moved in to our home.
at bedtime, from the moment we moved in, the boys would not stay upstairs. we'd tell them that the first time out they'd get a warning, the second time out they'd lose their night-lights, and the third time out we'd shut the door. this was a system developed in the most desperate days of sleep deprivation. each night we'd make it to the locked door stage and matthew and i would have to stay awake until the pounding and crying stopped so that we could unlock the door for the night and carry a sleeping boy into his bed from the stairs.
i felt hopeless about bedtime. i felt powerless to change the arrangement. then, one afternoon i walked by the door and i felt something. take the door off. i thought, no, no, no, you don't understand. i need that door or i'll never get any sleep at all. the kids will never stop coming down. take the door off. i couldn't shake the feeling.
the boys saw me take the door down and they cheered like it was the berlin wall. they asked, "why did you do that?" and i told them that i felt prompted to do it, but i didn't know exactly why.
that night when we put them to bed we explained that there was no door now, but that we all needed to sleep. i don't remember exactly how the conversation went, but i do remember that not a child came downstairs until morning.
maybe the door was the problem the entire time.
i learned that day that the solutions to the problems we face as parents may be very simple, but outside of our understanding at the time. i learned that being still and paying attention to quiet inspiration brings power, love, and a sound mind into parenting.
the other day matthew put an arrow through the hole for the handle. the boys all gawked in amazement as they walked around the door to see the arrow in the fence. i don't think they remember the old days, but how fitting that this door found it's place in our life as an archery target.
at bedtime, from the moment we moved in, the boys would not stay upstairs. we'd tell them that the first time out they'd get a warning, the second time out they'd lose their night-lights, and the third time out we'd shut the door. this was a system developed in the most desperate days of sleep deprivation. each night we'd make it to the locked door stage and matthew and i would have to stay awake until the pounding and crying stopped so that we could unlock the door for the night and carry a sleeping boy into his bed from the stairs.
i felt hopeless about bedtime. i felt powerless to change the arrangement. then, one afternoon i walked by the door and i felt something. take the door off. i thought, no, no, no, you don't understand. i need that door or i'll never get any sleep at all. the kids will never stop coming down. take the door off. i couldn't shake the feeling.
the boys saw me take the door down and they cheered like it was the berlin wall. they asked, "why did you do that?" and i told them that i felt prompted to do it, but i didn't know exactly why.
that night when we put them to bed we explained that there was no door now, but that we all needed to sleep. i don't remember exactly how the conversation went, but i do remember that not a child came downstairs until morning.
maybe the door was the problem the entire time.
i learned that day that the solutions to the problems we face as parents may be very simple, but outside of our understanding at the time. i learned that being still and paying attention to quiet inspiration brings power, love, and a sound mind into parenting.
the other day matthew put an arrow through the hole for the handle. the boys all gawked in amazement as they walked around the door to see the arrow in the fence. i don't think they remember the old days, but how fitting that this door found it's place in our life as an archery target.
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