Red Car (An essay by Elise about Caleb's sleeping patterns)

My son’s bed is the most optimistic piece of furniture in the house. It has a crimson convertible frame with sporty contours that any boy too big for his crib should love. Four plastic wheels decorate the sides of the car. A colorful bedspread crowded with images of trucks and hot rods covers the body of the vehicle. Even from its humble ad on Craigslist, the bed’s pictures shouted, “Buy Me and Your Kid Will Love Bedtime!” and “I’m Just Too Adorable to Pass Up!”
When I tuck him into the blue comforter at night, my son seems to enjoy lying so snug in his racecar. “Good night, sweetie, I love you,” I say, then “Be a good boy.” I shut the bedroom door and take a few hopeful steps away. I even dare to wish for a peaceful evening. And then I hear the cry that mocks me. It starts out as a low moan that asks, “Why have my parents abandoned me?” and then gradually escalates into a series of piercing screams that could only mean the car had driven itself into Hurricane Andrew. The crying often oscillates between these two extremes—for hours.
I don’t believe that anything could compromise morals more than hearing one’s own child scream for a long time. “Just let him cry,” they tell me, but would they really withhold a glass of water when all London is burning in their kid’s bedroom? The problem becomes worse when I lie down to sleep myself, exhausted and spent after a long day. The screams seem to grow louder, and the idea of rest dimmer.
As the little hand on the clock reaches the ten, I’m forced to decide where I stand. Do I let him suffer in pursuit of some ideal I’ve read about in a sleep book? Or do I melt under his demands, showing that screaming is the way we get mommy to tell a story and then another, and then another…and then it’s 2 a.m. Am I hard or soft? Red state or blue? Unemployment or inflation? Yankees or Red Sox?
And usually as I turn in bed, pondering these questions, my husband wakes up. “What’s his problem?” he asks. “Are we going to let him scream like that?” Somewhere in those drowsy questions, I hear an accusation. I’m one of those cruel women, aren’t I. I’m Harry Potter’s aunt and Cinderella’s stepmother. That can’t be, I tell myself. I love my son! And then I have to do it. “Fine!” I cry. I tread angrily to my son’s door. I inch the door open. For one noiseless moment the sirens stop and Silence enters our home in a pair of golden slippers. And there’s my son, uncrushed by the bookcase, unpoisoned by baby powder, sitting up in the car bed that was such a deal at seventy-five dollars. “Dwink of wat-teh?” he asks cheerfully. And then I give him a drink of water because I’m the soft mother now it’s too late anyway. Perhaps he sleeps after this point; perhaps he requires a few more visits until he’s satisfied. But each night, he manages to rest in the little car, however improbable it seemed before. Each morning, my husband and I rush to get him, forgetting the last night’s torment. And each day, I start to wonder whether this will be the turning point I read about in those books—whether this day will be the one my son learns how to go down without a fight, whether the bright racecar bed will finally perform its function. And even though this dream has been delayed all those other nights, I cannot help but hope.