Hello, little one

Moths, kids, tears and sisters

Elderly man (left), my sister (right)

Now the weather is getting warm, the moths are waking up. They love artificial light, and at night when the lamp is on, they fly into my face as I try to read. All winter long they lived decadently in moth babylon - feasting on the lost socks and mating in the clumps of dust that linger under my bed. They arrive in packs of three, and dance in constant kinetic motion - frustrated, determined, frail and dumb. It is an infestation and it has to end.

Resolution is in the air. I have found myself in a period of profound cosmic reassessment. An unknown spiritual force is insisting I take an inventory of how I run my life, inside and out, no stone left unturned. Cupboards are inspected; cracks in the ceiling are noted. Every lazy decision, sloppy lifestyle choice, or big deep neglected emotion is thrusting itself to the front, demanding to be resolved.

One example is my son’s bed time. A nightly game of deception, in which I must lie in the dark for at least one hour and pretend that I have a calm nervous system and, like him, am ready to close my eyes at eight o’clock and not open them again until seven.

I don’t know when my elaborate method of getting him to settle started, but I know that at some point last year I took the easy route. Now it’s coming back to bite me. It doesn’t work for him anymore and it doesn’t work for me, either. I have to find a way out, soon. Before we both go mad.

On Tuesday, bed time began as normal at six fifty. The basics were covered - toilet visits, teeth and face partially cleaned, books read, grievances aired. The light went off. We listened to some stories in the dark, I stroked his face, he stroked mine, he needed the toilet again and wanted to talk quite extensively about kites. After that was quite a lot of tossing and turning. He was hot, then cold. Very thirsty all of a sudden. His request for a third toilet visit at nine thirty was denied, until I realised he really did have to go. I began to spiral. I left the room for some time out. He cried out for me. I did this twice.

From nine forty-five to ten I dug my nails into my arms. I imagined the other parents enjoying their evenings with wine, reconnecting with their lovers while their babe - now asleep for three hours - silently restores its factory settings, brain growing larger, limbs getting longer.

I told my son I needed to brush my teeth, and went upstairs. Sat on the corner of my bed, I texted my sister to tell her that everything in my life was wrong. Two moths flew into my face as I listed off my issues, ending with: “And my son is still awake!”

She replied: “Can I speak to him?”

My phone is from 2011 and had four per cent battery, so I feared it would die if I made a call. I tried to resolve the situation on my own, but when I went downstairs to see him, his energy was still frantic, because so was mine. I pressed dial.

“Hello, little one,” my sister said.

My son smiled and said hello.

She told him to get cosy and to pull the blanket up to his face so he felt snug. She asked him to get into his most comfortable position and to scrunch his toes and wiggle them. She asked him what his favourite part of the day was. He said that at school he got a prize - a prize for good listening. She said it must have made him proud. Did he know what proud meant? My son replied: “Happy.”

He was smiling now, and she said that she loved him. He said he loved her too. It was as if her voice were an extension of me - a sweet, tender part that I couldn’t quite access. They said goodbye to one another, and he was asleep eight minutes later.

I cried when it was all over, worried that the cosmic lesson here was that I would fail as a mother unless I got more proficient at bedtime. Either I have to become a kinder mother with more innate skills for making a very energetic six-year-old tired, or get strict and shut the door no matter how loud he cries out for me. Walk away! Crank up the volume on the TV. Kick back and disassociate as Monty Don explains that large-flowered clematis are glorious at this time of year.

I tried to channel my sister’s voice as I lay in bed, despairing. If I’m quiet enough, I can always find it, as though it lives inside me - like the voice of God or John Lennon. It has guided me through decades - the fleeting, agonising adolescent heartbreaks, the drunken abyss of my twenties, the rest of the confusing, bruising realities of adulthood, and now through bad bedtimes.

I wiggle my toes and shut my eyes, safe in the knowledge that for now, I am still a little sister, with a big sister who can save me. Not everything has to change.