My kids are in that sweet spot of childhood and it only lasts a few months….it’s summer, that blissful time of being a kid with no responsibilities and nowhere to be (except camp, because we have to go to work). We’re not doing summer enrichment or classes or packets that were sent home. We’re reading for fun and not because their chosen books were on some arbitrary list. Included in our summer shenanigans, are an endless string of neighborhood kids coming over, swimming in the pool, riding bikes, and running around the back yard. I’m thankful that my kids get to do this and do it safely in our quiet neighborhood. Inevitably, other people’s children will sleep over. I make jokes about hiding in my bedroom from all the kids, but I think it’s great. Usually, the first kid to fall asleep gets a little teasing. Just to see if it made a difference (spoiler alert: it didn’t) I told the kids that I was always the first to fall asleep at sleepovers when I was a kid. And in college. And as an adult. I was teased too. Oh well, what else is new?
One psychology degree later, as well as living this long after a less than ideal, and certainly bizarre childhood, I think I know why. I didn’t sleep well as a kid. After being uprooted and placed with a family who were essentially strangers, I was too scared to sleep. Alone in a dark room, in a strange place with strange people, my imagination would get the best of me and I would “see” proverbial monsters everywhere. I requested a night light, but to no avail. I would sleep eventually, of course, but five or six hours for a small child is not exactly healthy. As I got older and made friends, things didn’t change much at home, but I would zonk out within minutes of putting on a movie at a friend’s house and was most definitely the first one out at a sleepover when we settled in for the night. The reason was simple: I felt safe. I wasn’t alone. I could finally sleep. I fell asleep on the school bus and in class because, again, I was surrounded by people. I got the best sleep of my life in my sorority cold dorm, my sisters all around me. And not just because I was drunk. Well, sometimes that. I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow next to my husband. After I’ve checked that all the doors are locked seventeen times. I’ll get to that. Just feeling safe is an amazing sleep inducer for me. Oh, that kid that fell asleep first? No worries. He lives in a great home. It’s just that they had been at an amusement park all day and he’s only six.
I was having a conversation with my brother the other day about how people are all basically a bunch of weirdos. Every single human being has weird stuff they do that they’re too embarrassed to share with the world, much of it stemming from something that happened to them in childhood. Well, I don’t embarrass easily, so here goes: I am obnoxious about my house being clean. Like, unnaturally so. If people don’t take off their shoes when they come inside, it takes everything I have to not physically throw them from the premises and the whole time they’re here, I can only think about them leaving so I can sweep. I sweep every day. I can’t help it. I have a visceral reaction to the feel of dirt between my bare feet and the hardwood floor. If I’m working later than normal, my husband will have it done so he doesn’t have a psycho wife on his hands. Why am I like this? Easy. I grew up in a dirty house. See, psychology isn’t hard.
I have to check all four doors that lead to the outside to make sure they are locked before I can go to bed. I do this usually twice, but sometimes three times. Why? I assume because my childhood trailer on the outskirts of Atlanta was broken into a few times. I light candles almost every evening. Before I go to bed, I have to check a few times to make sure they’re blown out. I have to make sure all my pets are inside and I’ve physically seen them. I have to peek in on my kids and make sure they’re sleeping peacefully. No wonder I fall right asleep. It’s exhausting going to bed. Why do I do all this? Because I’m afraid that at any moment the rug will be pulled out from under me and this great life that I’ve worked so hard for will be upended by some tragedy or another. I also have to have my radio volume at an even number and I have to wear bracelets in odd numbers, one, three, or five. Nothing in between. I have no explanation for those ones, I’m just weird.
Everyone you know has their own idiosyncrasies. As adults, I don’t think we care all that much. In fact, I love my batshit crazy friends all the more for it. They are interesting and have character. Kids are probably less forgiving. I try to stop it in my household as best as I can, but I can’t be everywhere all the time. Usually, it helps to tell my kids an embarrassing story about myself to help make them see that just because someone is different from them, doesn’t mean they can’t love them. But parents, tell your kids from me: don’t make fun of the first kid to fall asleep. You don’t know why they’re so tired.
Let's Be Dramatic 