Tough Parenting

We are lucky that our seventeen-month-old Molly is generally a joyous, agreeable, and social little person, which means that 99% of the time we can appear to be good parents simply by keeping her washed and fed.

Inevitably, however, there are times when parenting demands a bit of firmness.

One of our little battles recurs just before bedtime, when I usually spend a few minutes reading her some of those little board books. (Ever wonder why baby books aren't made out of paper? 'Cause they'd rip 'em to shreds, that's why. There are some fabric ones that are kind of cool. My children's book, if I ever write one, will be printed on Tyvek.)

At some point in her maturation process, she elected herself Lord High Executioner over my choice of books.

Fair enough, I am happy for her to express her independence (after all, when she's a US Senator I hope she won't hesitate to break with her party from time to time to take a principled stand). But there is one book that I have never let her veto. It's the last book I read to her every night, and it's called Time for Bed. There are precious few rituals in our busy lives, and I obstinately decided that reading this book as the last thing before sleep, dammit, is something we do around here.

The art is classy, and the message is simple. Essentially it's a story of various different animals saying goodnight to their babies, ending with a human child.

For about a week, Molly saw that book coming and tried to force it shut with her strong and surprisingly long arms (which will no doubt serve her well in the WNBA, where she will make millions before entering politics as her generation's Bill Bradley). She said "Daddy, no" in her sternest voice. I soldiered on: "Time for bed little fish, little fish." She feigned disinterest and whimpered.

But after a week or so, she let me win. She chooses the first five to ten little books, and I get that last one without protest.

And as of tonight, Time for Bed has ascended into ritual sainthood, because the book now has a hypnotic effect on the child. A few minutes ago, for instance, she was full of beans, wriggling around in my lap, playing with little owl puppettalking a lot, pointing out all of her favorite pictures in the books. (Dog, dog, dog, dog, DOOOOGGG!)

But then I opened it up, started reading the zen monotone of a parent who wants a child to sleep, and her whole body went slack. She leaned back, gazed at the pictures, and yawned. Halfway through, her eyes lingered in a blink. By the time I reached the last page, she was reaching for my neck, to help me pick her up and carry her to the crib. Amen.