Tonight I left my seventeen-month-old son, Soren, at home with his father so I could attend an evening writing class. It is the first time in his young life that I have not been there to put him to bed. I guess I should have realized that taking a night off for myself would not come naturally now that I am a mother. As the time drew near for me to leave, I frantically rushed around the house, stopping first in the kitchen to prepare Soren’s dinner and scribbling detailed feeding instructions on Post-It notes.

Then up to the bathroom to set out the big blue bathtub and Soren’s favorite tub toys. Finally, into the nursery to lay out his pajamas and warm socks and to make sure that his lovey, a well-worn striped cat, was waiting in his crib.

It is not that I doubt my husband’s competence to feed and bathe our son and tuck him snugly into bed. However, as the one who has performed these rituals every night since he was born, I cannot stop myself from micromanaging the evening. It is my way of being there, even when I am away.

My husband once revealed that he considers me to be the pilot and himself the co-pilot of the “baby plane.” However, he assured me that he could land the plane safely if necessary. I see that this is true as I go into the living room to say an early goodnight to my son, who is playing happily with his father on the floor.

He is oblivious to the sadness in my voice as I explain to him that Daddy will be performing the bedtime routine solo tonight. In fact, my child can barely be bothered to look up from his blocks. My heart is heavy as a I walk to the car and realize that this is only the first of many such good-byes in our relationship.

I hope that they will always be harder on me.

By Rebecca Jackson

Labels: By Rebecca Jackson

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