In order to see my husband—to really spend time with him, I have to stay up past my bedtime. I have always put my daughter to bed and her bedtime matches my own. But once her eyes are closed and her breathing deep, I creep downstairs and join my husband on the couch. We talk and make tea and watch a show. It is late but we both need this quiet time together before bed. In the mornings I am tired, too tired to want get up some days.
But Wednesday night is Early Night or Special Night as my son calls it. It’s the one day a week where my husband and I swap bedtimes and I put our son to sleep and he stays up with our daughter. Bedtime on Wednesday nights is early for me. My son falls asleep an hour or so before my daughter and instead of going downstairs, I revel in the softness of my pajamas, turn on my bedroom lamp, slip under the sheets, and read in my own bed. Alone.
On Wednesday nights I imagine my life without children, remember life before them when I could read and drift to sleep on my own. I feel the distance between my former and future selves—times when bedtime was and will be my own.
I am in the middle now—reading stories out loud until my eyes droop, getting my daughter one more sip of water. Bedtime can stretch endlessly but on Early Night I am reminded that they will not last forever. And although I relish the smooth sheets and a book in my hand, I hear the soft murmurs coming from my daughter’s room and I miss her.