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I’m writing from three-hours-and-twenty-seven minutes past my bedtime.
One room over, my daughter is screaming bloody murder. I just took all the Christmas lights down from around her bed and threw them in the trash. This was before I held a nude Barbie by the legs and threatened to trash it too. I didn’t know what else to do.
I still don’t.
My dad told me never to do anything once that you don’t want to do a ba-zillion times. It was his singular maxim when it came to parenting, and I’ve done my best to uphold it. That’s why we don’t sleep with our kids, or let them sleep in bed with us. They’ve invaded every other part of our lives, but our bed remains a sacred Mommy-Daddy space (for obvious reasons).
Still, my daughter rages on, every cry an assault on our temple.
This isn’t the first time she’s led such a charge. Sleep has been a problem all the way back to when she was tiny. Our son has never had problems falling asleep. He might buck around for a minute or two, or sing, but he’s never been a screamer like my daughter.
Sometimes she calls us by name: “Momma! Daaadda!”
It’s gut-wrenching and kind of scary, especially if we’re already half asleep. When our daughter was really young, my wife would wear noise-canceling headphones while I waited for the wailing to stop. We adapted this approach after reading On Becoming Babywise: Giving your infant the gift of nighttime sleep.
According to that book, if you run into your child’s room every time they whimper, you risk creating a vicious stimulus-and-response loop. Babywise says there's no harm in waiting it out. Some kids just have a reservoir of extra energy and crying is how they expel it. Some people disagree with this, of course. And those people still have teenagers sleeping in their beds.
Not me.
No, I’ve just got a screaming six year old, a string of broken Christmas lights, and a Barbie Doll in danger of getting trashed.
I don’t know where my daughter gets it. Okay. That’s a lie. I know exactly where she gets it. When I was a kid, I used to do the exact same thing. I was afraid of the dark, which is often the case for kids with overactive imaginations (not sure what that says about my son).
I’d cry out, Mom would come in, rub my back, then leave. A few minutes later, I’d cry out again, well aware that The Big Bad Guy would come in next.
When Dad entered my room, he always said the same thing: “I’m the only thing in this house you’ve got to be scared of, son!” It was a line he’d heard from his father. I’ve used it a couple of times too, and the results are the same now as they were then. More tears. Another sleepless hour lost.
I can’t remember how old I was when I finally quit my late night shenanigans, but I did eventually stop. My daughter will stop at some point too. At some point, her bedroom door will remain closed and she won’t want me anywhere near her bed, much less cuddled up beside her, rubbing her back.
I know all this, but still, I wait. I tell my wife we’re doing the right thing even though I already regret trashing the Christmas lights. My wife hung those lights when we moved into the house by the lake. Maybe I’ll hang them back up in the morning. Maybe I should do it now.
When my bare feet touch down on the cold floor, the crying finally stops. I check the monitor. My daughter is flat on her back, hands clasped like an angel. I watch her breathe, her tiny chest rise and fall. I wonder if she’s dreaming, if she’ll remember this night and all the ones that have come before it? Will she ever understand the reasons behind her father’s rules, the lessons I’ve tried so hard to teach her?
I lie back down, I close my eyes, but sleep does not come easy.
Don't Know Tough
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In Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul.
Then Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs. |
Ozark Dogs
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In this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town.
After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.
Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it. |
| Previous columns: |
• Writing from Witherspoon Hall
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• Writing on the day of the college football National Championship
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• Writing on a rollercoaster of triumph and disaster
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• Writing from the crowd before the start of a Shovels & Rope show
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