It's not him, it's me

Mostly you can rely on me to complain about LittleBear's eating or sleeping habits, interspersed occasionally by intemperate ranting about politics or work. But when I know that you really deserve a treat, it's time to wheel out the big guns. It's time to talk about the weird stuff that goes on inside my head.

We'll start, as I so often do, with LittleBear's ability, or lack thereof, to go to sleep in what I feel is a timely fashion, with what I feel is a reasonable level of parental attention. Basically, my view of reasonable is that I shut his bedroom door and that's the last I hear from him until the following morning. Why I think this is reasonable is probably worthy of a doctoral thesis in its own right, as it has no basis in the reality of any six-year old children of my acquaintance, particularly not my own. In fact, LittleBear's current levels of post-bedtime-needs is trundling along at what I have to acknowledge is an utterly normal level compared to his little friends.

Because I'm me, I raise the subject of sleep with almost everyone I speak to, whether they know me or not. And this over-eagerness to discuss the sleeping habits of small children means that I'm fully aware that LittleBear is no harder than, and largely considerably easier than, many, many children when it comes to bedtime.

Why am I making such a meal of this preamble?

I'm just laying the groundwork. Making sure that you know, that I know, that LittleBear is basically a pretty amenable small boy. Clarifying the fact that my rational mind is completely relaxed and reasonable and cognizant of all the facts. All so that I can reveal the disproportionate, visceral manner in which my unconscious mind and body betray me every evening.

From the moment that I tuck LittleBear into bed, for a minimum of forty-five minutes, I sit on the sofa, nominally reading, watching television, surfing the interwebs, or some other mild and undemanding occupation. And throughout that time, I almost entirely fail to concentrate on what I'm doing. I look at my watch at least once every five minutes to check how long it's been since LittleBear went to bed. If there is so much as a rustle or a murmur over the monitor, my stomach muscles clench into a knot such that I curl up, with my knees tucked in close to try and ease the stomach ache. If LittleBear goes as far as to actually want something, then the period of time for which I sit, anxiously checking the time, extends for another forty-five minutes beyond Last Contact.

After an hour of silence has passed, I begin to uncurl. My stomach starts to un-knot, my jaw unclenches, the nausea begins to pass. I start to relax enough to concentrate on, and enjoy, whatever I'm doing. I start to believe that my boy is asleep.

Why?

Why do I care so much?

What is it that I fear so much that I feel physically sick when my son doesn't fall instantly asleep?

I cannot even tell you what it is that I'm afraid of. If you were to ask me what's the worst that could happen (or the worst that has ever happened) it would simply be that LittleBear doesn't fall asleep till "a bit late", and then life continues as normal. There is no terrible, life-changing catastrophe that arises from a slightly late night, but you'd never know that from the way I react. I know all this. I know my physical and emotional reaction is utterly absurd. And yet, still it happens. Every evening.

LittleBear's been in bed for an hour and a quarter now. Do you suppose he's asleep yet?