Negotiating with a Two-Year-Old

My son and his wife went away overnight for his birthday, and his wish wasn’t extravagant at all. He simply wanted one full night of uninterrupted sleep with his wife. As a father who raised five sons, I completely understood. I remember those years of cobbled-together sleep, walking through life in a perpetual fog. This was Amilia’s first big sleepover with Grandpa and Grandma, and naturally, I was confident. After all, I had raised five boys and seemed to have helped half the neighborhood along the way. Surely I had this figured out.

The evening began with songs, tucked-in blankets, forehead kisses, and gentle pats on the back, but then it turned into repeated trips to the bedroom door, followed by an intense negotiation over exactly how far the door should remain open. A little wider. A little more, intermingled with fictitious potty needs and cups of water. After what felt like the twentieth round, I made the classic mistake that only adults seem capable of making. I tried logic. I explained that if she stayed in bed, the door could remain open, but if she kept getting up, Grandpa would have to close it. You can probably imagine how well that worked. The tears came, the protests grew louder, and neither of us was winning.

So I stopped.

I took a deep breath and remembered something I had long forgotten. When I was two years old, the dark felt enormous. Beds seemed to swallow you whole, closets held monsters, and the world didn’t need to make sense. It simply needed to feel safe.

So instead of trying to manage her behavior, I chose to comfort her heart. I laid down beside her and turned on some quiet meditation music, then took several long, slow breaths until she began breathing in rhythm with me. I gently stroked her cheek, softly rubbed her tiny ears, kissed her forehead, and whispered over and over: you are safe, Grandpa loves you forever, I’ll always protect you, you’re wonderful. Within minutes, I watched her little nervous system completely relax. Her breathing slowed, her eyes became heavy, and five minutes later, she was peacefully asleep.

I lingered there for several more minutes, simply looking at this precious little soul and wondering who she would become, what gifts she would bring into the world, what adventures were waiting for her. In that quiet room, I silently poured every ounce of love a grandfather could possibly give into the heart of his granddaughter.

As I quietly slipped from the room, something settled deeply into my own heart. We’re all still two years old in some fundamental way. We all have moments when life feels dark, when we wonder if the monsters are real, and when we long for someone to remind us that we’re safe and loved. Sometimes the greatest gift we can offer another person isn’t a solution. It’s our peaceful presence, offered in the stillness of our own calm, in the gentleness of our willingness to simply sit beside them until hope quietly returns.

Rich Christiansen