Evening lamentations

It was 7 p.m. Bedtime was eminent. N had taken the children out for a walk around the block so I could enjoy a few moments of silence after a long day. I was feeling particularly worn out.

Wednesdays are activity-packed for us and it's always tough to keep the house clean and get dinner ready as a result of our harried pace. Plus, I was feeling overwhelmed after a day of exhibiting extreme patience through a string discipline issues.

C just doesn't seem to hear my voice anymore and has taken to shouting the phrase: "Knock it off!" anytime someone says or does something disagreeable. And L has acquired the supremely infuriating habit of giggling when we try to have a serious conversation with either her or C in an effort to correct difficult behavior.

N removed brother and sister just in time that evening, as the sheer volume those two were producing together as they raced around the house on noisy plastic vehicles after dinner was about to evoke certain and severe mama wrath.

While they were out, I drank in the silence and thought about how frustrated I had become with trying to tailor discipline strategies to each child's specific needs. Before I could formulate a complete thought about this, they had returned to the house, just as surly as when they'd left, but they smelled of fresh air and we were moments away from bedtime now. I gave them hugs and kisses, then slipped off to take a nice long shower and let N take care of the teeth-brushing, story reading and snuggling down.

I had just turned off the faucet after successfully scrubbing the day off of my weary self, when L peeped her head around the shower curtain.

"Mama, I have something very important to tell you. I can't find Spotty."

I directed her to the place on the stairs where I had last seen her special puppy, gave her another kiss and asked her to hand me a bath towel. Good. All was right with L's bedtime routine and she'd soon be slumbering soundly and hopefully getting a good night's rest for a better day tomorrow.

After toweling off and dressing for a cozy night on the couch with whatever grown-up book I wanted to read, I heard something I don't recall ever having heard before: It was L crying in her room all by herself.

She wasn't really alone--C was there in his bed--but the point is, N and I were not there to hear her. She wasn't soliciting sympathy. She wasn't hurt. I peeked around her bedroom door and there she was in her lavender nightgown, bathed in soft pink light beneath her mosquito-net canopy, holding her puppy, sobbing.

I sat beside her and asked what was wrong. She melted into my arms and began blubbering incoherently about her best friends and how she missed them and she doesn't get to play with them enough and could I please sew C's costume tonight so he would have it ready in time for Halloween. It was a string of atrocities and frustrations that had no common thread, except that L was not in control of any of those things and she was desperate to make it all right.

I tried to console her -- telling her that she just has to trust that her friends love her and that we will see them again soon. I assured her that I would not be sewing C's costume tonight, but that I understood the timeliness of the project and would be on the task just as soon as I could muster the energy.

None of this seemed particularly reassuring. There was my little girl, caught up in a swirl of lamentations, punctuated by exhaustion from her busy day and all I could think to do was place figurative bandages on her emotional wounds and encourage her to sleep it off.

I couldn't fix anything that night for her, and it reminded me of times when I, as a girl, lay awake worrying about trials that had happened that day, knowing there were no easy solutions and that a cleansing cry chased by a deep slumber was the only way to rid my heart of its heaviness.

Today, L rose with her usual vigor, dressed herself immediately and bounded down the stairs to her art supplies to sketch out the scenes for our upcoming Halloween party and to decide which cookie cutters would be best for autumn treats.

She seemed to have forgotten about her troubles of last night and had moved. I guess it's helpful that a 4-year-old's memory is short and her heart is easily mended.