Good Night Sweethearts

A few of you mentioned, after my rant against time, that I have the power to save my moments. If I write about something, it's mine forever, to revisit at will. It's harder than I thought to write about some small facet of our day and convey what makes it precious. Maybe I just can't imagine the result being precious to anyone but me. Kind of like that carved box of high school mementos tucked on a shelf in a seldom opened closet. Who else could possibly care? But, I imagine my kids opening it someday, curious, maybe even with wonder.

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It's 6:15 p.m. and the pitch black night is already hidden behind our dark, insulating window shades. A fire roars and pops, warming my feet and hands for the first time all day. The kids ignore it, just a part of the evening, but it still holds charm for me. A magical backdrop to an ordinary story, it imbues our quiet, routine evening with atmosphere.

They are ready for bed, diapered, slathered in lotion, chapped skin tended, faces clean. It's my favorite time, and not just because we are so close to sleep and mind-soothing silence. The soft, clean-smelling pajamas transform them before my eyes, soften their sharp elbows and knees, remind me that they are all still more baby than child. Fairies sprinkle their enchanted powder. The day fades, good and bad, blissfully, into the bewitched bedtime hour.

My three babies climb the hardwood stairs in front of me in a little knot, on all fours, their marshmallow bottoms clothed in bright stripes and duckies and monkeys. Their pajamaed feet swish against the floor. We brush teeth to the tune of their ceaseless chatter, use the potty, wash our hands, pick out books to read. The familiar steps are soothing, even for me.

In our high, over-sized bed, they bicker and tussle. The baby grabs at the book in my hand, surprisingly strong. It is not the idyllic scene of my pre-children dreams. It is louder and more chaotic. I am more tired and less pretty. The sheets, though, are soft and clean, the kids are piled around me in happy, restless repose and this room is my favorite in the house. The walls are a soft, barely blue-gray and every open spot is filled with black and white photographs. Our wedding. Our travels. Our newborns. Our life, pretty in pictures, there for me to contemplate before sleep.

After books, children snuggled safely in their cribs, I sing three or four songs. I used to be able to pick and I taught them so many beautiful lyrics. Country Roads. The River. Now they flood me with requests. I brace for it. Clifford. Superwhy. Twinkle, Twinkle. I start to feel impatient and tired. The bedtime pixie dust of patience dissipates. I dread the predictable fits when I say one more song, but I stay uncharacteristically calm and even.

This is it, I know. This is the time. This is the good stuff. These are the details I hope they will remember in spite of the rest.

I may or may not have lost my shit at dinner when Garrett spilled his second glass of milk and unceremoniously switched him to a sippy cup amid a torrent of protesting screams. Early that day, impatient and angry, standing in the bitter cold at school, clutching Quinn to my hip and keeping Saige out of the street with my harsh, warning voice, I may or may not have told him that he was being a pain in the ass as he dawdled and crept his way out of the minivan.

I may or may not have snapped when Saige asked to pee-pee for the 100,000th time during quiet time. I may or may not have cried a little when Quinn refused to lay down and sleep, disrupting the afternoon. I might have made him cry when I yelled 'no' too loudly to the fourteenth matchbox car run across the wall.

I might have been impatient. I might have been unkind.

I hope I answered their endless alphabet questions, feigned interest in what penguins eat, and payed attention when they talked. Most likely, though, it was 50/50, half engagement, half distraction. At best.

No matter what the day brought, I always read two books. I always sing to them and tuck them in. The whining continues, the requests, fix my blankets, I want another drink, I'm not tired, but as I begin the final song, always the same, the song my Dad sang to my sisters and I, they quiet. They lie against their pillows, we all relax.

Good night sweethearts, well, it's time to go.
Good night sweethearts, well, it's time to go.
I hate to leave you, but I really must say,
Good night, sweet Saige, good night.
Good night, sweet Garrett, good night.
Good night, sweet Quinn, good night.

It is exactly the same every night. I stand in the doorway, a dark figure against the light in the hall. Remember this, my heart begs them, take this with you when you go.

Good night my babies, I whisper, like I've been whispering for three years and four months, like I'll whisper for fifteen more years, maybe forever, even if it's only to myself, I love you, I'll see you in the morning.