After crossing the spring equinox threshold, getting my kids to bed before dark is a fraught challenge. Monday night was no exception. Except this time, I caved to my son’s request to pitch a tent and sleep outside. I was already frustrated by the series of disputes and arguments that punctuated our evening after I picked the kids up from school, their nerves frayed from friendship drama that only worsened after we got home to discover that one of the dog’s had the lid of a tub of ice cream hanging from his jaw. My kids acted shocked—utterly surprised—and right before I was duped by their feeble excuse that perhaps the pup had learned how to open the door to the freezer, I went into their playroom and pulled the couch out from the wall. Like pack rats, my kids had amassed a small dumpster pile of wrappers from pilfered treats. Too bad the dog gave it away.
While I put an all-out ban on watching television and yanked the electrical cord from the wall, I also realized that my mounting anger needed a more tempered and reasonable outlet, so I also handed the kids a broom, mop, and garbage bag. The mess would be theirs to clean. To calm down after cleaning the room, the kids were sent outside and I took a deep breath and wondered how I will ever survive motherhood. And this, sneaking ice cream and cookies, was relatively innocent compared to where my mind sprang: drugs, alcohol, shoplifting and stealing cars when they grew older and more impulsive. From those disastrous fantasies to blaming myself for my poor parenting skills, I realized that I need to step into the fresh air or else the rest of the night would be ruined.
Then, it was time for bed and I had to cajole the kids inside. Charlie begged to stay out later and then asked to set up a tent on the deck. At first, I said no, it was a school night and it would be cold. He said he’d set it up all by himself and asked to use his father’s warmest sleeping bag. The cold didn’t bug him one bit. This was all he wanted.
And in that moment, I believed him. I also remembered how much being outside soothed whatever bothered me as a child and continues to do so today. I didn’t have much confidence in this plan, but I relented. Sometimes all of us need a night outside to set things right.
My husband and I predicted that Charlie wouldn’t last much after dark and we tried to encourage him to dress warmly and consider wearing a knit hat. Charlie busied himself with setting up the tent and begrudgingly accepted an extra blanket. He tried to get the pup to share the tent, the same dog that alerted me to the secret garbage cache. The pup wouldn’t settle and I figured that once Fitz came in for the night, so would Charlie.
When I woke up at 5:30 in the morning, I looked out my window, expecting to see an empty tent. Yet, much to my surprise and delight, I spotted my eldest curled in the sleeping bag. I crept onto the deck to take a picture and figured the rising sun or the chilly 39-degree temperature would soon wake him. Charlie slept until 7:30 and bound into the house with a proud smile on his face. He reported that it wasn’t cold at all and that he had a fine night. It wasn’t a big deal at all, he said, and then busied himself making lunch for the school day.
On the drive to school, I shared with Charlie that I when I was 10 like him, I didn’t sleep in a tent all by myself. I was at least 11, I explained, when I slept out all by myself to catch an August meteor shower.
He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that was a big deal, Mom. It just felt good.”
Then I wished him a good day at school and before he slammed the car door shut, he asked, “Can I sleep out tonight?”
The “yes” slipped off my tongue quicker than I expected. I wasn’t going to follow up with a brief lecture on when things are a big deal, like sneaking ice cream, or, more significantly, the self-awareness, as a fourth grader, to know when you need a night alone in a tent.