Lullaby, And Goodnight?

Being a parent is my vocation. I am not necessarily good at it, merely called to it. It involves constant decision making, a mountain of patience, and an undying attitude of humility; humility in the sense that often there seems to be little if any gratification for doing the right thing for Ann, my 18-month-old daughter. Often there appears to be no "right thing."

As the life of a parent comes together with that of a child, one nurtures, feeds, clothes, teaches, and plans activities for the other. The child gives some direction in these matters, but the bottom line is that parents have power over children, and children naturally trust us with that power. Giving up that power--in adjusting schedule, keeping promises, or allowing Ann to say "In a little while I'll come to get my diaper changed"--has become one of my main concerns in learning to parent.

The most difficult lesson for me has been learning to relinquish the power to stop Ann's cry, allowing her the time and space to work out her own bit of darkness. To comfort her in the rocking chair until she falls asleep and then to lay her quietly in her crib would be much easier. For months my wife, Ginny, and I tried to do just that, until Ann began to wake up each time we laid her down. She would scream until she was picked up and nestled against one of us: content, secure, and soon asleep.

After talking with friends and our doctor, we decided to try letting Ann cry herself to sleep. Forty-five minutes was chosen as the ritual time of agony for us and for her. If at the end of that time she was still crying, one of us would go comfort her.

The first night she cried for 43 minutes, I noted on our digital clock radio. Not straight through, mind you; the tears were interspersed with hopeful silences. Ginny and I lay in our room praying that this was the right decision and that Ann would not be on a psychiatrist's couch in 25 years saying, "My parents let me cry myself to sleep. That's why I'm an insomniac."

After a few nights the wait became easier. As the length of time that she cried decreased, our confidence about the decision increased. Soon Ann was falling asleep quite easily and sleeping through the night.

That was a few months ago, and Ann seems to be going through another rough spell. She still goes to bed by herself, but not without a lot of tears. This morning when put her down for a nap, she cried awhile, then played for about half an hour. Finally she began to cry again, and I thought maybe she urgently needed her diaper changed. I went in to her and found her standing up in the crib being sad. When I explained to her that she needed to go to sleep by herself, she cried and screamed hard for a couple of minutes.

When things become this difficult, I begin to doubt our past decisions about parenting and to feel unsure, sinful, and plain old stupid. For the most part now, though, Ginny and I feel just enough confidence to allow Ann to cry, and not to think we can comfort her in all situations. Our decision is based on a recognition of the human condition, looked at through eyes of faith. Don't we all encounter the mystery of pain from the beginning? Don't we all have our own bit of darkness to live through?

I can't accept the view that children are unspoiled, unsullied innocents who simply receive whatever neuroses their parents communicate to them. We are all interconnected in sin, pain, and suffering; we experience this linkage daily. But this mystery has a counterpart: that grace can invade and does. That little girl, asleep in her crib, needs grace in the form of prayer, patience, a chance to grow toward a healthy balance of independence and dependence, and willing parents to help provide that. I say "help" provide, because that is the most we can do.

The ultimate realization for me is that the power I have is illusory. Clinging to it will only cause us to be ripped apart eventually. I need to realize that now while I can quietly begin to let it, and Ann, go.

Rob Soley worked as a receptionist at Sojourners when this article appeared.