Quick update from the bedtime trenches:

It didn’t exactly get better.

“Sit in my chair” turned into “rub my back,” which turned into “lay with me,” which turned into… seriously considering fully getting into bed with him. And somewhere in the middle of that slow slide, I had this realization:

I think me being there was actually keeping him up.

But — and this felt important at the time — we had Montana coming. Photographing an epic elopement. Six nights away. Six nights. The longest we’ve ever been away from him. And it felt… unwise (read: emotionally chaotic) to overhaul his sleep right before leaving him with grandparents.

So we didn’t.

We just kind of… put our heads down and got through it. Told ourselves we’d figure it out when we got home.

And then Montana.

It was everything I remembered and somehow more. The mountains that make you feel small in the best way. The kind of quiet you don’t realize you’ve been missing. The space — actual, physical space — but also the kind that opens up in your chest when you’re not rushing from one thing to the next.

Sam and drove a campervan around Wyoming and Montana on our honeymoon, and ever since, it’s lived in this little corner of my brain. The what-if place. The “if we didn’t live here…” place.

But the funny thing about traveling — at least for me — is that it never actually makes me want to leave home.

I come back more sure of what I need. And for me, it’s this. The trees. The water. The way the air feels here. The familiarity of it all. The rhythm we’ve built.

It’s not Montana.

But it’s ours.

And apparently, part of ours right now is a toddler who will not go to sleep without a full emotional support team. So we came home, looked at each other, and said: we need our nights back.

Not in a rigid, “he must sleep independently at all costs” kind of way. But in a very real, very human way. We missed the couch. The end-of-day exhale. The uninterrupted conversation.

So we tried something different.

I’d do the initial lights-out bedtime. All the love, all the snuggles, back rubs, really soaking it in — and then I’d say goodnight and leave.

He’d cry. He’d call for me.

And Sam would go in.

And here’s the part I didn’t fully expect: it actually worked.

Sam is so good with Henry. Like… so good.

He calms him down. He makes him laugh. He doesn’t get pulled into the emotional undertow the same way I do. There’s this steadiness to him, this confidence that I think Henry feels.

Meanwhile, I’d be in the living room, fully tense, halfway up to his door every time I heard him call my name.

And Sam would text me:
“Don’t come in.”
“I’ve got him.”
“Seriously, stay out there.”

(Which, for the record, I was not great at at first.)

But he was right. Every time I went back in, it stirred everything up again. Every time I stayed out, Sam handled it. And Henry… adjusted.

Not instantly. Not perfectly. But steadily.

And it’s made me realize something I didn’t know I needed to learn:

I don’t have to be everything for him, all the time. And more than that, I don’t have to step in and manage how someone else loves him.

Sam doesn’t do it the way I do. He’s less sentimental about it. Less tangled up in the meaning of every moment. He doesn’t sit there thinking, one day he won’t need this, or what if now he needs this FOREVER.  He’s just… in it. Confident. Present. Calm.

There’s something about motherhood that can make it feel like we’re the only ones who can do it “right.” Like if we don’t step in, something will be missed or mishandled.

But watching Sam with Henry in those moments [read: creepily watching him on the monitor] and then forcing myself to stay out of it has been this quiet reminder:

He’s got this, too.

Maybe not in the same way.

But in a way that is just as good. Just as important.

And maybe part of this season — for me — isn’t just about letting Henry grow a little. Maybe it’s about loosening my grip a bit, too. Trusting that he is loved, held, and understood… even when it’s not me doing the holding.

And still, when it’s my turn, I’m right back there.

Sitting in the chair.
Soaking it in.

Because I know how quickly this all shifts.

[This note was written while I rewind How to Get to Heaven from Belfast for the millionth time because it is so good, I need to pay better attention, and I am not as good at multitasking as I think I am.]

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