bedtime sweetness...

These days bedtime is extra sweet. Caleb has just gotten into reading a book at bedtime. These days we're reading "The Quiet Evening" by Thatcher Hurd, who is the son of the woman who wrote "Goodnight Moon." It was published in the seventies and is just so lovely in its simple watercolors and poetic text. We snuggle up with the book, his head resting in the crook of my arm. I rub my cheek on the top of his head and smell his little boy hair, soft as corn silk.

Me: At our house, Father and Mother are sitting by the fire.

Him: Patience, baby Lyra, Mommy, cabin, fireplace?

Me: That's right, Buddy. You and Mommy and Patience and baby Lyra went to the cabin and Mommy made a fire in the fireplace.

We have this conversation every night, among other comforting repetitions. Each page has its own corresponding conversation. Sometimes I find myself stretching out story time because I love the feel of him so still and singularly focused in my arms, because I love trying to climb into his mind and see what he sees, because I love listening to his lisp and watching his pudgy fingers point at the pictures. And because I know that soon enough he will be grown and I will long for these days.

After our book, I nurse him down. Some nights I am so tired, so spent, so weary of nursing. But then I think to myself, "Don't rush this. A few months from now he won't be nursing at all." Most nights I sing him a song while we nurse. His favorite is the "Barney" theme song that goes, "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won't you say you love me, too?" He laces his fingers with mine and hums along. When I get to the "kiss" part of the song, he puts his hand, still clasped with mine, up to my mouth for a kiss.

Then I kiss his forehead, his plump cheeks, his nose. I tell him I love him, Daddy loves him, Tavish loves him. I ask him if he loves us, and he shakes his head, "No." Though it's too dark to see, I know he is grinning his tricky trickster grin. Then I say, "Yes you DO!" and I tickle him under his chin, and he laughs.

I tell him I'm so happy he was born. I tell him I'm so happy he's in our family.

Then I say, "Night night, Buddy." And he says, "Feet dreams, Mommy."

I lie in the dark with him, listening to his rhythmic breathing, feeling his warm body melt, little by little, into sleep.