That spring when my son turned three, he suddenly developed a fear of the dark. Every night after putting him to bed, I’d tiptoe out of his room. Before I reached the stairs, bare feet would thud across the floor. He’d dash into the hallway clutching his small blanket and say, “Mommy, I’m scared.”
I walked him back to bed the first night, and again the second. On the third night, worn thin, I knelt to reason with him. “Streetlights shine outside, and your nightlight’s on. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He nodded and settled down, yet his door creaked open again mid-staircase.
I tried every fix all week: blazing hallway lights, overnight white noise, even homemade “monster spray” made of water and a tiny drop of food coloring. Nothing helped. His nightly wake-up runs climbed from three to twelve — I counted each visit that day.
Friday evening, drained, I sat down and cried on the carpet outside his bedroom door. He heard me, opened his door quietly, and sat beside me. “Don’t cry, Mommy,” he murmured. It struck me how ironic it was; I was supposed to soothe him, but he ended up comforting me instead.
I lifted him into bed and did what I’d resisted before: I lay down next to him on his compact twin-size bed. The blanket barely covered us halfway. He rolled over, rested his little hand on my arm, and fell asleep in five minutes.
I stayed until three a.m. before heading to my own room. Later I read countless parenting pieces. Some labeled the behavior transitional attachment; others urged strict boundaries. All I could think was that he’d grow up fast and stop needing me soon. Was one sleepless night really such a hardship?
I used to think the goal was to get him back to bed as quickly as possible. That night, I realized maybe the goal was simply to be there long enough for him to feel safe.
He did outgrow it eventually, just like everyone said he would. But I still remember the weight of his small hand on my arm, and how quickly he fell asleep once I stopped trying to fix the fear and simply stayed.
