The toddler whisperer

Grandchild Number Three arrived in dramatic fashion — on greased skids, as it were. That baby wasted no time barreling into the world two weeks early. Talk about speedy delivery, but everyone is doing well.

The baby’s arrival meant that Grand One and I got to spend a lot of time together, which included nap and bedtimes. This child does not want to miss a minute of life, so sleeping sometimes feels like something to be shunned until it can be shunned no more.

I have visited often enough to know how taxing it is for GO’s parents to induce somnolence in their firstborn. Reading quietly, dimming the lights, putting on white noise, darkening the room, should all set a stage for lulling this kid to sleep.

But, no. Not really. Nope.

So, I had trepidation going into the first night with this child. GO is bright and full of “rizz” and as my daughter and son-in-law would say, “heckin’ cute.” (They're right.) But not always a good sleeper.

In my own child-rearing adventures, I had one good sleeper and one who was like Grand One. The one who was not a good sleeper learned to vault himself out of his crib at 18 months. It’s too bad Iowa high schools stopped offering pole vault as a field event. He would have been a star. Scholarship material, even.

In facing the challenge of bedtime with Grand One, my daughter and son-in-law gave me some strategies, and I was grateful for the tips. I also told myself that this could well be a marathon event, so settle in.

I gotta hand it to my family. They’ve made this child a lover of books at an early age, but kids are smart. They learn to work the angles before their parents catch on so at naptime a three-book limit is in force, and at bedtime, the limit is upped to five.

That first night, I read four books, and then I signaled the five-book warning. The reading light was extinguished, and “Oma” (that’s me) lay down on the floor next to the crib.

“He’ll want to hold hands through the crib slats,” my daughter had advised. And so he did. There are those moments. You know the ones. A look between two people that says everything that needs to be said. A word of encouragement that helps you break through the fog of self-doubt. Well, that little hand in mine was such a moment. He will never remember it, but I certainly will.

Ten minutes, readers. Maybe twelve, and Grand One was asleep.

Did I keep this accomplishment to myself?  I did not. My daughter and son-in-law were probably trying to sleep back in the hospital with the newborn, but I had to brag.

“Just call me the toddler whisperer!” I texted.

“Can you move in?” my daughter asked.

“Beginner’s luck,” I replied.

The next day, at naptime, I held my breath. Was I a one-hit wonder? A one-trick pony? Grand One was a bit more restless than the previous night, so after the three books were read, I once again lay down. Minutes passed. Rustling around in the crib. Little murmurings. More rustling.

I could try singing, I thought. During daytime hours, his other grandma and I often sing him all the childhood standards, “The Wheels on the Bus,” “Old McDonald,” “Three Blind Mice” ad infinitum, but none of those seemed like good choices for helping a child slip into dreamland.

While Grand One was still in utero, I’d stumbled onto a song on YouTube: “Irish Eyes.” I’m not Irish at all, at all. Not one speck, but I like the song, and I’d sung it to Grand One in his first months of life. It seemed like a good time to trot it out again.

“My mother says I have Irish eyes, Irish eyes, Irish eyes...”

“More,” he said when I finished.

“More.”

So, a few times more with the Irish eyes and the English hair and the traveling feet and the restless soul, and he fell asleep.

The second night, though, I could tell that the novelty of me was already fading, so when he thrashed about, I began to sing “Irish Eyes” again.

Again, he clamored for more. The kid is stalling, I thought, but I obliged. Many, many times I obliged.

Some people have written their own verses to this song, to reflect their own heritage, and I was starting to wish I had thought to craft some specific to my roots.

“My mother says I have wooden shoes, wooden shoes, wooden shoes...”

He finally quieted down.

All this singing made me remember the weird choices I made when Grand One’s mommy was a baby.

When I changed her diaper I sang, “My Romance” and “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I don’t know why.

When she was older, I sang her show tunes, focusing, on “I’m Just a Girl Who Cain’t Say No” from “Oklahoma” until I realized that I was sending the wrong message. Thankfully, she never picked up the tune or the lyrics. Rodgers and Hammerstein are pretty sophisticated, and that song would have been a definite no-no with my Calvinist relatives.

I’m currently trying to learn the lyrics to “The Swimming Song” because it’s fun, and it would lend itself to actions. Kids like action songs, although during pre-nap story time, when I stood and tried to act out part of a dinosaur book, Grand One cut me off.

 “Sit!” he said.

Kids know what they like, and that wasn’t it.

But my singing must have passed muster. I’ll take it as a win.

Joan Zwagerman is working on new verses to “Irish Eyes” — just in case.