Bunny book to help kids sleep a bit of a flop,
Will key words in bold or italic persuade kids to close their eyes?
We’re cuddled together in bed, about halfway through a book that claims to be the latest, greatest way to make kids fall asleep, and my 3-year-old daughter bolts upright.
“Mummy,” Scarlett says, in an alarmingly alert little voice, “this book is really long. Is it over yet?”
“No, my sweetheart,” I say, and nudge her small head a titch harder than prudent, back onto my chest. “Just listen.”
It’s about 8:30 p.m. and we’re pressing through The Rabbit Who Wants To Fall
Asleep, a self-published book-turned-phenomenon apparently leaving trails of slumbering children across Europe.
Author Carl-Johan Forssen Ehrlin claims that his 22-page work, which is sparely illustrated and dense with text, contains “specially constructed” sentences and words for the sole “psychological purpose” of forcing shut-eye.
He even adds a “warning!” to “never” read it aloud “close to someone driving any type of vehicle.”
Good thing I put my kids to sleep in a bed.
Nonetheless intrigued — and thinking about how much “me time” I’ll get in the evenings if it actually works — I eagerly spend $9.99 for the iPad version.
I dutifully follow Forssen Ehrlin’s instructions in his “note to the reader” on the opening page.
I slow my voice, whispering the phrases in italics and emphasizing words in bold, such as “now you will fall asleep,” which pepper the text.
Within minutes of settling in, Scarlett and Hudson, 6, begin to yawn and rub their eyes, making me think Forssen Ehrlin is onto something.
Using my boldest, but calmest, “fairy tale” voice, again as instructed by Forssen Ehrlin, I read about Roger, a rabbit coincidentally the same age as both my children (the text asks the reader to insert kids names and ages) and how he is having trouble falling asleep.
He’s lying in bed thinking of all the things that make him “tired now,” the book says, suggesting relaxation strategies that remind me of yoga or edicts to be more “mindful,” that Roger — and my kids too? — could employ.
Like relaxing his feet and legs. Or, putting all his “lingering thoughts” into a box so he can “sleep now,” knowing he’ll have all the answers in the morning.
As the story meanders, Roger eventually takes a trip to see “Uncle Yawn,” a powerful sleep magician, and along the way he’s assured it is OK for him to “fall asleep now” before the book’s inevitable happy ending, which, the book says, no one will miss at all.
My constant repetition of phrases, such as “sleep now” and “you are getting even closer to sleep” draws my husband to the doorway of my son’s bedroom. He turns on a light in the hall so I can see his eyes roll: “this sounds like amateur hypnosis,” he says, in a too-brusque voice, startling the kids.
I glare at him and he reluctantly shuts off the lights, guffaws and exits. Hudson’s head pops up.
“Mum,” says my tussle-haired little boy, “you promised us popcorn. Can we have it now?”
“No,” I say, angrily, with a hint of desperation because I can feel my free time getting crushed, like Lego pieces under the tires of my car.
“Lie down. Bedtime. We are trying something here.”
Probably frightened by my resolve, Hudson and Scarlett cuddle low against my sides once again and our eyes readjust to the dark.
I reactivate my iPad and a glowing white picture of Roger flashes against the dark screen, making me anxious.
Scarlett raises her tiny legs in the air and Hudson fidgets.
I finish the first full reading, glance at my still-awake kids and start again from the beginning hoping they won’t notice. The author mentions, in his opening note, that it may take two or three rounds to induce snoring.
But as I try and fail with this new “technique,” I wonder: does this book offer any advantages over the other books we read nightly?
Usually, after bath and teeth brushing, our routine rough-and-tumble and running-amok around the house to release that lingering energy, we settle down.
Then we read any number of free ebooks from the Toronto Public Library, such as Olivia or Dr. Seuss or I’d Really Like To Eat a Child, a pageturner about an alligator who won’t eat his bananas, preferring to save his appetite for a tasty little girl or boy.
I finish the first full reading, glance at my still-awake kids and start again from the beginning hoping they won’t notice
Often, we choose a hardcover from our “private” collection.
It’s true that after those books, things can devolve into more giggling, whimpering and pleading for me to lie with them and help them relax. A sucker, I usually do, falling asleep myself — and forgoing any personal time.
But once he’s calm, Hudson usually falls asleep quickly. And once I wrestle Scarlett into her own bed, she usually stays up only for a bit longer, reading quietly to herself and allowing me to retreat without a hassle.
This night, I press on — more to try and win a battle I know I’m losing. After the third full reading of this painfully boring book, I’m ready to poke out my eyes with Uncle Yawn’s wand. But I glance at my kids and their breathing is slow and rhythmic. It’s 10 p.m. and, finally, they’re asleep.
I untangle myself from their tiny, soft arms and tiptoe upstairs to watch TV — and yell at my husband.
“It worked,” I say, trying to convince myself (more than my spouse) of the book’s special powers. “They’re asleep.”
“You could read them Homer’s Iliad or the Yellow Pages and it would do the same thing,” he says.
As he finishes his thought, we hear the shuffle of tiny feet and a small head pops into the doorway.
“Hi Mommy,” Scarlett says, awake and raring to go. “Did you finish the bunny sleeping? Can we read the Olivia book now?”