Melissa won't sleep in her new bed. Technically, she wouldn't sleep in her old bed either, but more frequently than not she'd stay in it all night (I like to believe) because it was just too much of a hassle to haul her little body over the crib rails before making her way down the scary dark stairs into mommy and daddy's room.
But man. All she has to do now is easily slip out of her little bed and casually make her way downstairs. Every night, I talk her to sleep in her hip little toddler bed that I plunked down 90 frickin' bucks for, in the swank new purple room I spent 3 hours painting and 2 hours decorating, and then every night around 2 AM I wake up because someone's smelly little foot just clobbered me in the back or upside the head. ("I like to call these kinds of kids 'stealth sleepers'," says her pediatrician.)
Here's what Melissa claims is the problem:
Me. Because I just had to go and tell her the story of the Big Bad Wolf.
I mean, she loves the story of the Big Bad Wolf and the 3 Little Pigs, particularly the part where the pigs go "Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!" It sends her into all kinds of silly giggles, every time (and I so get where she's coming from--I could watch THE HANGOVER a billion times and still laugh up a lung; some stories are just forever classics) (not, sadly, THE HANGOVER 2). Every night she begs to hear this story again (the Big Bad Wolf story, not THE HANGOVER--that story would take way too long to explain to a 2 1/2 year old, and I have no idea how I'd insert Dora or one of the Backyardigans or someone from Yo Gabba Gabba into it, which are all scenarios she frequently demands from me and my story tellings). And she wants me to insert her, Dora, and Dora's monkey friend Boots into the parts of the 3 Little Pigs just so they can all say "Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!" A lot. At this point, Melissa isn't even interested in the real story of the 3 Little Pigs. She wants to be the star of the show.
I do try to innocent-ize it. I always make the Big Bad Wolf say "Dagnabit!!" at the end, and bring everyone chocolate chip cookies so they can eat and be merry and become fast little friends.
Unfortunately, it appears a fear of monsters, ghosts, and things that go bump in the night can be passed on through genetics, and Melissa has received mine. Every night her dad sends her to bed with a hug and a kiss and a piece of wisdom: "Don't be scared. Nothing is scary." And every morning I wake up, I say: "Hey sweet girl. Why the heck are you in our bed? AGAIN??" And every morning she says: "Because the Big Bad Wolf go RAAAH! And he scare me."
If you ask her if she likes her new room she's all YEAH! about it. If you ask her if she likes her new bed, she solemnly (and not a bit dramatically) shakes her head No.
Last night I decided to try a new tactic. We spent 4th of July at my mom's house with my brother and his family. Right before digging into the hot dogs and barbecue chips, my niece and nephew and Melissa said a meal time prayer, and I hear Melissa was the only one of the 3 who actually did it right. Which is so crazy because (a) we don't go to church, (b) we're not really a religious family though we all agree that Something Important is out there and It's willing to guide us through this crazy zig zag called Life if we ask It to, and (c) the only time I ever pray is when I'm in pain or think I'm about to experience some type of pain.
And it's not that I'm anti-prayer. I believe in prayer. I think prayer (when done for good causes and nice reasons) sends all kinds of good and helpful vibes into the general atmosphere, and I also think it's like free psychotherapy counseling. God's a really, really good listener, and a good 80% of the time he gently helps you realize the answer and the power to get what you desire was always inside of you to begin with. (That's a major theme in THE WIZARD OF OZ too, by the way.)
So last night God sent my soul a quiet message, and that message was: Hey Amy, maybe if you tell Melissa about me, I can help her not be afraid of the Big Bad Wolf (which I bet is actually just your cat slinking through the hall past her bedroom door to use the litterbox). And so I did. I explained the concept of God to little Miss M.
I told her she's a part of God, and God is a part of her. I told Melissa God is everywhere: God is in her room, and my room, and in our garage, and at her school, and the playground, and everywhere. I told her God really, really, really loves her. And that God loves everyone: God loves her, me, daddy, all of her cousins, Tasha, her grammy, her grandpa Harry, her grandpa in St. Louis, all of her aunts and uncles, everyone. And that her grandpa Bill and grandma Eula are with God right now, and God loves them and they're helping God protect us all and watch over us.
And so don't be scared, I said. Because God has angels. And if you get scared, all you have to do is tell God you're scared, and he'll send his angels to fight the Big Bad Wolf and make him go away. God will make the Big Bad Wolf run far away, forever! God's really strong.
And then this morning, I woke up and said: "Hey sweet girl. What the heck are you doing in our bed? AGAIN??" And Melissa said: "I scared of God. He eat the Big Bad Wolf."
AAAGH! Foiled again.
Tonight I'm going to tell her the story of Buddha's fighting soldiers. By the time I'm done, I feel fairly confident my child will have some type of phobia about world religions. Just one more thing she can tell the therapist in years to come--I'll be paying good money, so I expect the stories to at least be juicy and surreal.
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